


my wet heart catches on every thorn

by cassieoh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crowley Has a Strength Kink (Good Omens), Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Experienced Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attack, Rules Lawyer Aziraphale, Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), The Fall (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens), but there's a happy ending (and honestly a lotta happy things earlier too), gratuitious use of celestial metaphors, hypothetical forced non-sexual submission, mild angst in the first few chapters, nongraphic dreamed MCD, one (1) drunk kiss, presented clearly as wrong, sex without Efforts, tags will be added as I post chapters so please do check back in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28332465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: Aziraphale has his orders.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 161
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020





	1. Written in Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of the 12 days of blasphemy challenge by D20Owlbear 
> 
> Today's prompt was "Oh Godhead hid, devoutly I adore Thee." 
> 
> The title is from Sweet Hibiscus Tea by Penelope Scott
> 
> Please note that while this chapter is not explicit, the story will be. I will be updating the tags with possible triggers and other relevant info as the chapters get written. <3

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I must ask you to repeat yourself.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t enjoy being in Heaven for a number of reasons, but the worst of them is how often it is underlined for him that he is not like the others. Perhaps his time on Earth has changed him or perhaps there was always something flawed at his core, the cause is unimportant in the face of the effect; Aziraphale cannot simply accept that which the rest of the Host seems not to question. 

Michael doesn’t look up from her desk. 

“Is your corporation damaged?” she asks even as she pulls out Form C-542b-K (“Request for Corporeal Assessment and Servicing-Self”) from the seemingly endless drawer of folders. 

Aziraphale shakes his head rapidly. 

“No, no, my apologies. I heard what you said. I just….” he trails off, trying to find the correct words to express his discomfort. “I’m not questioning you, of course. But, I suppose I’m concerned that this is a move away from stated policy, and since policy was written based upon God’s Plan, I’m-”

Michael sets her glass pen down, the noise very nearly echoing in the near silent space. She does not look up from her paperwork. 

“Are you suggesting that your orders, the ones I just gave you, are in opposition to God’s Plan?” She speaks very slowly and Aziraphale cannot help but take an instinctive step backwards. He wonders if that is the voice Samael heard before he became Lucifer, if that was the tone with which she’d condemned Crowley to Fall. 

Wonders if he would one day share their fate due to whatever flaw there was in his foundations. 

“No,” he whispers. 

“I thought not.” She picks up her pen again and makes a small notation on the corner of the cramped form before her. After a long moment she sighs. “Why are you still here, Principality? You have your orders. See them done. I’ll be awaiting your _timely_ report.”

Aziraphale nods, wordless, and turns on his heel, marching from the room with a stiff spine and a sour gut. 

The trip back to Earth passes in the blink of an eye[1] and soon Aziraphale finds himself standing in the middle of his bookshop and wondering just where it all went wrong. 

The very idea of carrying out the order as it was presented to him is anathema. He cannot... . It would be a betrayal of not only himself, but more importantly, of Crowley. The thought of the demon brings Michael’s words once more to the front of his mind and suddenly he cannot abide another moment spent unsure if Crowley is safe and whole. He has not seen the demon since their terrible fight in the park nearly twenty years previously, but after so many years walking in parallel he has a sense for Crowley. 

Despite what he’d claimed about having others to… to fraternize with, Crowley hasn’t left his flat in nearly a decade as far as Aziraphale can tell. He steps out to the corner and hails the first passing carriage he sees, and soon he is standing before the long row of houses that contains Crowley’s rented rooms. They’re fashionable and sleek but Aziraphale can’t see the charm past the palpable aura of anxiety that flows forth from Number Six. 

“Nothing for it, old boy,” he tells himself, brushing imaginary lint from his coat and wishing he’d brought his hat, if only to have something for his hands to fiddle with. The wheel of a carriage passing by on the street clatters against an uneven cobblestone, sending a jolt of alarm down his spine. 

Jumping at carriage wheels. 

He’s a fool. 

He lowers his hand back to his side. 

Perhaps he can stall long enough for Crowley to find himself on the wrong side of a cutpurse’s knife, perhaps there will be no need for blood on his own hands or the ache of violence in his joints. 

Aziraphale had never liked being a warrior and now he feels like he’s less than that, nothing more than a knife in the hands of an uncaring automaton, send to destroy the thing– the _being_ he cares about most in the universe[2]. He cannot abide that. 

But, the alternative feels worse, if that is possible at all. To wait for Crowley to meet a grim end in an alleyway or at the hands of a fellow demon, or God forbid[3] another angel who will not hesitate to give him the Holy Water he desires. 

He’s not a warrior anymore and he’s hardly a shining example of what an angel is meant to be, but Aziraphale isn’t and never has been a coward. The idea of someone else stepping forward where he’d stepped aside….

He cannot abide it. 

Before he can lose his nerve once again, Aziraphale knocks on the door. 

It’s all rather anticlimactic when he hears no movement from within. The roiling torrent of anxiety feels as if it’s caught around a snare, looping back on itself and plunging deeper into the spaces between atoms. He wonders if Crowley has always felt this way and was just usually more adept at hiding it or if it’s new.

He wonders if it’s his fault, if his refusal did this to Crowley. 

Crowley doesn’t answer the door and Aziraphale can’t bring himself to wait any longer. Promising to himself that he’ll apologize properly when given the chance, he jiggles the handle just hard enough to shake a minor Miracle loose. The door swings open, it’s hinges creaking in noisy protest at being used. Aziraphale winces and steps into the foyer before the reason why rusty hinges is bothersome hits him. 

Crowley is not the sort to let that type of thing slip past him. He’d never before let any part of his home fall into disrepair and– Aziraphale looks around, swallowing back the fear that wants to rise in his chest. Dust covers every surface he can see, great mounds of it, undisturbed by anything save the breeze from the now open doorway for what must have been decades. 

That doesn’t make any sense at all. 

Aziraphale crosses the space as quickly as he can, chasing the eddying streams of fear and anxiety back to their source. He hardly notices the dated wallpaper or sheets draped across furniture in equally empty rooms, nothing save the pervasive fear that has settled into every dark corner of this place. 

The feeling leads him up the long stairs to a small room at the back of the house. The door is closed and again Aziraphale hesitates, though only for a breath this time. When he pushes the door open it sends the dust swirling, tiny dervishes caught up in ecstasy before the feet of the divine. The slightly clearer paths left behind by the dust arc out from the door and he carefully places his feet in the bare patches. 

The room is small, barely large enough for the single bed that dominates the center. At first he thinks it’s empty, but the pile of quilts in the middle of the bed shift a little and he feels another pulse of that terrible miasma. For the first time it occurs to him that this is _Crowley_ suffering. Of course, he’s _known_ it is Crowley feeling that way all along, there is no one else whose presence sings along the edges of his own the same way, but knowing a fact and feeling that fact in the very core of himself were two very different things. 

Crowley is in a house surrounded by dust, locked away behind a door that has not opened for at least two decades, emitting the strongest aura of fear Aziraphale has ever felt. 

Unbidden, his hand rises from his side, reaching out towards the lump in the center of the bed. 

“Crowley?” he whispers. 

No response. 

He takes another few steps closer until his shins hit the edge of the bed. Startled, he stumbles and falls forward, managing to twist himself to the side enough that he avoids Crowley as he lands with a grunt. 

The demon doesn’t move and suddenly Aziraphale is terrified that his moment of weakness on the step has already come to fruition and Crowley has already been injured beyond repair, that he’s only arrived in time to witness the last agonized throes of his dearest companion. 

The last words they’d ever spoken had been in anger and fear. 

Heart in his throat, Aziraphale scrambles from the bed and, uncaring of how the dust would ruin his trousers, falls to his knees beside it. He rips the quilts back, sure he is about to find a mortally wounded demon and then freezes. 

Crowley is a pile of shuddering black scales curled up at the very center of the bed. It’s been so long since Aziraphale has seen his serpent form, and never so small. 

“Crowley?” He sets the quilts to the side and, when Crowley still hasn’t acknowledged his presence, reaches out to run one hand down the length of his back. 

The scales are smooth and cool and they tremble slightly beneath his touch. 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says. His throat aches. 

He lifts his hand to reposition it just behind Crowley’s head for another soothing stroke, only to freeze when Crowley’s back arches up under his hand, chasing the contact. 

The world feels very still and Aziraphale realizes for the first time that the flood of terrible feelings has ceased. His hand drifts back down towards Crowley’s head and he allows himself a single caress of the tiny scales behind the demon’s eye ridges before he stands and snaps, miracling a narrow chair into existence beside the bed. 

He can wait until Crowley awakes. 

He has his orders after all. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. Just the one, it takes rather longer to blink all of the eyes of his true form, there are enough of them that a sort of ethereal doppler effect takes hold. Crowley once described it as “Like when humans do ‘the wave’ at football matches, only nightmare inducing.”↩

2. It’s a thought he’s only just allowed to coalesce from the nebulous aether of his mind, but it’s a true one. Crowley had asked for Holy Water and Aziraphale had spent the next week and a half unable to draw breath for the anticipatory grief that engulfed him. It is, he thinks, yet another sign of his flawed making.↩

3. Please God, Aziraphale’s heart shrieks, please forbid this.↩


	2. Perchance to Wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: "Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits."

Crowley’s first thought upon opening his eyes is that he shouldn’t be able to open his eyes at all, as he’d not had eyelids when last he checked. His next thought is that it’s awfully cold in his nest. There’s a sharp breeze across him that steals what little warmth he manages to generate on his own. He sleeps like the dead when he can manage to fall asleep at all, and he knows he didn’t sleep-slither out of the warm spot in the center of the bed. Moreover, the view that greets him is of the faded wallpaper in the little back bedroom, and the surface under his skin is familiar and soft. 

Ugh, perhaps someone particularly strong-willed had broken through the Strong Discouraging of Construction Work miracle that he laid down before curling up for his nap. He’d been woken by someone ripping through his wall more than enough times, thank you very much. 

He starts to coil his tail in tighter when it hits him: skin. The sheets are familiar against his _skin_. Immediately, Crowley’s worries fade away. Of course he’d just transformed into his more human shape in his sleep. That isn’t so unusual, though it is frustrating. He doesn’t tend to sleep as well or for as long when he’s wearing the human corporation. 

“Oh, you already feel less afraid,” Aziraphale says. “That must have been a terrible dream.” 

Crowley freezes at the first word, eyes locked on the delicate spray of lavender that makes up the center of the design on the wallpaper. He curses himself, because he’d been so sure he was safe and alone in his own rooms that he hadn’t even cast about for another presence. He is so bloody stupid. You always, _always_ , check your surroundings first. That was Rule One in Hell. If Aziraphale had been Ligur or Hastur or, Satan forbid, Satan, Crowley would have been dead before he could even think about waking. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, “Right. Apologies. I’m afraid I’ve been sitting here long enough that I quite forgot how very rude my presence actually is.” 

Crowley hears a rustle of fabric and the groan of wood scraping across wood. “I’ll be on my way,” Aziraphale goes on, “Though, there’s something I need to– I mean, I have a matter of great importance we must discuss.” 

He seems to hesitate then, clearly waiting for Crowley to react in some way. But Crowley can’t move, it’s all so far from what he expected to wake to[1]. 

Aziraphale sighs and steps from the room. 

“Please do call on me at your earliest convenience,” he says, sounding more than a little glum. Then there is nothing but the rapidly fading sound of his steps as he walks down the long hallway towards the stairs. 

Crowley sits in the bed for a moment, trying and failing to slot this all into his mental map of the day thus far. He hears the sound of Aziraphale’s steps change when he reaches the marble staircase. One step, two, three, and suddenly Crowley is fighting his way free from what remains of his comfortable nest. He gets one foot under himself and on the floor, but the other is still wrapped in the quilts. When he attempts to leap forward, he does a rather good impression of a rabbit caught in a wire snare and topples to the ground with a startled yelp. Somehow his trapped leg is still on the bed and he kicks futilely, trying to dislodge the cover so he can catch Aziraphale before he– 

“Oh, my dear, are you quite all right?” 

Well, this… day? He assumes it’s daytime. Aziraphale appears to be wearing a day suit, leastways, and while the angel might not be the height of fashion, he does enjoy following trends when it comes to what degree of formality is appropriate[2]. It dawns on Crowley that he isn’t actually sure what the trends of the day _are_ , given that he’s not sure how long he slept. A while, judging by the dust trying valiantly to choke him.

Ha. He doesn’t need to breathe. Stupid dust. 

The point is that this day, assuming it is one of those, really isn't going his way.

Crowley remembers that Aziraphale had asked him a question, and realizes he’s just been staring up at the angel like a vaguely concussed loon. He kicks the quilts again and this time they slip free with suspicious ease. 

For the sake of his pride, Crowley ignores that fact. He corrals his feet beneath him and surges upward, nearly taking Aziraphale–who’d stepped closer than Crowley’s upside-down vision had revealed–to the floor as he goes. Aziraphale stumbles back even as Crowley reaches out to steady him, and they both nearly topple to the floor again when Crowley overreaches. 

“Steady on,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to tease him for the unbearably posh way he says it except he’s just remembered why exactly he was napping in the first place. He drops his hands and takes a few rapid steps away from Aziraphale.

“Not afraid of being caught fraternizing?” he snaps out. He scrubs one hand through his hair, trying to gather the threads of his anger once more. He needs to have his wits about him if he’s going to have whatever conversation it is that Aziraphale is clearly aching to have.

Aziraphale has the good grace[3] to look ashamed. 

“Yes, well,” he says, wringing his fingers. Then he looks up and catches Crowley’s eyes and there’s something so serious and certain in his gaze that Crowley sits down with a thump, sure he’s about to be told he missed the apocalypse during his nap, or that Aziraphale has Fallen[4]. 

“Circumstances have, ah, changed,” Aziraphale says. “I’m afraid I’m here on direct orders from Michael herself.” 

Crowley stares at him, throat suddenly very dry. 

So, it’s finally come to that. 

“Right,” he croaks. “I’ll just fetch us the wine then, yeah?” 

He snaps and two bottles of wine appear in his hands. He sets them down on the floor and then snaps again, fetching two glasses. He pours them each a glass and hands the one in his right hand to Aziraphale, who takes it and then sits back down in the chair Crowley’s only just now noticed crammed into the corner of the room. 

He hadn’t owned a chair in pale blue and gold when he fell asleep. He’s sure of it. 

“Did you…?” He trails off and takes a large swig of wine before continuing, “Did you miracle yourself a chair so you could sit in here and watch me sleep?” 

Aziraphale’s fingers clench around the stem of his wine glass. 

“Yes,” he says. “I did.” There’s a blush high on his cheeks. “You must understand, my dear, I received my new orders and came straight here, and you wouldn’t answer the door, and oh, it was a terrible feeling.” 

Crowley scowls. He knows his presence has to be unpleasant for the angel to endure, but does he have to make it so obvious? Crowley might be a demon, but he still has feelings, blessit!

Aziraphale seems not to notice his expression, because he continues on without pause. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so powerful,” he says. “What _were_ you dreaming about? Were you actually dreaming? I assumed you were asleep because you didn’t respond to me.” He’s blushing again, though Crowley can’t understand why in this context, “I’ve never dreamed myself. I wasn’t actually aware it was possible, to tell you the truth, though I’ve always–” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley snaps, cutting off the stream of words midthought. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale murmurs. He sips his own wine and watches as Crowley rubs at his eyes and pours himself another glass.

“Why are you here?” Crowley asks. He knows he sounds exhausted, but he can’t bring himself to feel any other way. Clearly, nothing has really changed at all. Aziraphale wants to be around him to talk about things that mean nothing, but when it comes down to it, he’s not about to risk anything at all to keep Crowley safe[5]. 

Crowley just wants to sleep. 

Perhaps the wine will keep away the nightmares. 

“I’m here,” Aziraphale finally says, words heavy with reluctance, “because Michael has ordered me to bring about your Rise.” 

Crowley stares at him. 

He drains his glass and snaps it full again. 

It’s going to be a long night. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. Given that he hadn’t expected to wake today at all↩

2. At least he does when those trends mean dressing up in fancy suits in the evening. He has a rather dimmer view of those which would have him ‘dressing down.’ The angel is not of the opinion that casual clothing is especially flattering on his form. Crowley happens to hold the exact opposite opinion, but that’s another story entirely.↩

3. Ha.↩

4. No, no, he can feel that that isn’t true. He might not be the best demon in any given Circle, but he’s also not a complete dunce. He can feel when someone has had the Grace ripped from them, thank you.↩

5. Crowley thinks that he would do just about anything for Aziraphale. He thinks he’s proven this time and time again, but he’s also fairly sure that Aziraphale has never noticed. The angel can be a bit obtuse like that. It’s one of the things Crowley lov- likes most about him.↩


	3. Flushed from Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for discussion of hypothetical forced non-sexual submission, there are no details given and it is clearly presented as wrong
> 
> Days 3 and 4 together:  
> Oh make thyself with holy mourning black, and red with blushing, as thou art with sin.
> 
> And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be as frontlets between thine eyes.

Aziraphale watches Crowley drain his glass and regrets saying anything at all. What good will come of the demon knowing exactly how Aziraphale is meant to betray him? Especially when things are already so fraught between them.

“Have you slept the, ah, entire time?” he asks after Crowley looks sufficiently sozzled to not throw him out immediately[1].

“Entire time?” Crowley returns. He stands, one foot on the bed itself and one teetering precariously over the open space between the bed and Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale sets his own glass down, prepared to somehow stop a fall[2], but Crowley does a twisting, slithering sort of motion that ends with a thump and him seated on the floor cradling the bottle close, glass nowhere to be seen.

That same fondness, the realization that, no matter whatever else he might feel at any given moment, Crowley is his favorite above all others, rises in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Since our last encounter.” He regrets the words as soon as they slip from his tongue.

Crowley peers up at him. His expressive brows draw down in a sharp valley even as his upper lips curls.

“Encounter,” he says, slowly.

The way his tongue slips around the final consonant reminds Aziraphale of the sharp flick and release of the tip of a great cat’s tail as it hunts. He saw it once, deep in the jungles when he’d spent time among the Hi'aiti'ihi; the shadows, longer there among the trees than anywhere else he’d ever been, had peeled away from each other, coalescing into the sleek form of a jaguar on the prowl. Aziraphale, startled and not wanting to disturb the creature, had stood very still. It moved past him, towards the edge of the broad river Aziraphale had just been returning from. There were capybaras there, a whole group wallowing in the shallows. The jaguar clearly had the scent of them because it crouched low, motionless save for the flick of the very tip of its tail.

Violence had followed then, and Aziraphale wonders if it will do so now as well.

He would really rather not think of himself as a hapless capybara, to be slaughtered as he wallows[3].

“Crowley….”

Crowley takes another long drink, draining the last of the bottle. He tosses it behind him onto the bed where a few bright drops spill into the white sheets, staining them.

They’ll never be the same, Aziraphale thinks. You could always tell.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley snaps back out at him. The jaguar had pounced so swiftly, the muscles along its flank wound tight and then released as it sprang forward.

Just as the capybara had, Aziraphale freezes.

Crowley surges upward. He places his hands on the arms of the chair Aziraphale had manifested and leans in close, teeth bared in a snarl and eyes wide.

Eyes wide, having trouble tracking Aziraphale as he instinctively leans away.

Crowley is terrifically drunk, Aziraphale realizes.

The jaguar had missed the capybara, he remembers now. It had splashed down in the water and come up with nothing at all between its claws.

Crowley is holding the arms of the chair, but it’s for support. The longer he stays standing, the more distant his gaze becomes, the stronger the shake in his arms.

Aziraphale takes a chance.

He reaches out and takes Crowley’s forearms, gripping them just hard enough to give him that extra bit of support. Crowley tenses but does not try to pull away as Aziraphale stands and turns them both, pushing Crowley back down into the chair. By the time Aziraphale sits down on the edge of the bed, Crowley’s snarl has faded to an expression of mild, tipsy confusion.

Aziraphale sighs.

“I apologize,” he says. “I should not have told you that way.”

Crowley shakes his head, the barest twitch to the side but enough to reveal how very off-kilter he feels. Aziraphale’s own mouth twists sideways in a rueful smile.

“You know I’m a bit terrible at all this, my dear.”

A nod.

“I should have asked after you first. I’d still like to, if that’s alright with you?” Aziraphale hopes it is; he hopes he hasn’t ruined everything, either today or all those years ago.

“Okay,” Crowley rasps. He licks his lips to wet them and then says, “Go ahead. Ask.”

Aziraphale clasps his hands together and leans forward, catches Crowley’s eyes with his own. The demon is a picture in temptation right now, though there’s no way he can know it. He’s slumped in the chair, legs spread wide under the dark nightshirt he wears, a tantalizing hint of clavicle showing at the collar. His neck is long and shapely and the bright flush of drunkenness spreads across his cheeks.

A human might be tempted in a physical way by all this, but Aziraphale finds himself drawn to the honesty, to the vulnerability Crowley has gifted him.

Crowley is never seen in anything save the most fashionable vestments and yet here he is, clad in nothing more than a decades-old nightshirt, the rich black faded to nearly heather by time. He’s allowed Aziraphale to see that.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask if Crowley has been sleeping the entire time, but what comes out is;

“Are you still afraid?”

Crowley jerks and turns away, swallowing rapidly. He nods.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes it, a prayer and a plea and all the hopeful things between those points.

“Yes,” Crowley says. He won’t look at Aziraphale now, but there’s something steadier there that tells Aziraphale he’s leaning heavily on the alcohol to say anything at all. “I don’t regret the Arrangement.” The words sound like honey poured in the dead of winter; slow, reluctant, but sweet all the same.

Aziraphale’s chest aches.

“I used to have such wonderful dreams,” Crowley goes on, seemingly unaware of how his words score bright blows across Aziraphale. “I would fly or we would fly together. Sometimes I was in Eden and I hadn’t talked to Eve that day, she never ate the apple and Abel grew to be a man. He was tall and his laugh was loud and at night Eve would kiss his brow still, like she always did when he was small, do you remember?”

Aziraphale nods.

“I had such wonderful dreams,” Crowley repeats.

“And now?”

Crowley shudders.

“I dream of death. Yours, mine, the humans. It doesn’t matter. It’s all I see when I close my eyes.”

Finally,he looks at Aziraphale again; now his eyes are red-rimmed, the threatening tears a stark contrast to the honeyed amber.

“So, yes,” he says, “I am still afraid.”

Aziraphale doesn’t have the words he needs to respond appropriately to that. He’d thought it was despair that motivated the question, that Crowley was wanting a path out that Aziraphale could not even begin to consider giving him. But, now he’s not so sure.

Fear and despair are not the same thing.

The breath he takes scrapes against his throat, and Aziraphale realizes he’d been holding it the entire time Crowley was speaking. He wets his own lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Crowley grunts and looks away.

“S’fine,” he says. A darting glance and another snap that drops another bottle of wine into the demon’s waiting hand. “Won’t need it anyway after, I s’pose.”

Aziraphale snaps his own wine bottle out of the aether[4] and works at the cork. Crowley watches him struggle and doesn’t move to help.

The cork comes free with a hollow sort of pop and Aziraphale reflexively grins up at Crowley before remembering that they’re meant to be upset with each other. That he’s meant to be here to take everything that Crowley is away from him.

He looks around for his glass, but Crowley had manifested it and clearly has now stopped concentrating on it sticking around, because it’s nowhere to be seen. When he gives up the hunt and drinks from the bottle, he catches the flash of bright teeth from Crowley, but by the time he looks properly the demon’s face is once more expressionless.

Crowley waits for him to have a few more sips before speaking again. “So, how’re you going to do it?” He shifts so his legs are canted up and over the arm of the chair, the edge of the nightshirt falling down to reveal the angles of his knobbly knees. “Going to pray at me? Draw a circle and force me into it? Have me list my sins and repent?”

Aziraphale stares at him.

“Will you keep going if I scream?” Crowley asks quietly, seemingly uncaring how Aziraphale has pulled away, how he’s curled in on himself. “If I beg you to stop? Tell you I want nothing at all to do with Heaven, that I’d rather you just bless this wine and be done with it?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasps, and it’s a plea. He doesn’t want that, has never wanted that.

Crowley blinks and seems to come back to himself. He looks away from Aziraphale and sniffs. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Orders, right?”

Aziraphale can see it all so clearly. He can hear the way Crowley would tell him it was okay, the way his voice would break, the way his shoulders would slump. He can picture how Crowley might look with a restored halo shining through every thread of his being; beautiful beyond all measure.

It is disgusting.

Aziraphale has come to terms with the fact that Crowley is his person, whatever that happens to mean, and he cannot imagine wanting him to be any different than he is.

“And if I didn’t?” he asks.

Crowley pauses in the middle of tilting his bottle up. “What?”

Aziraphale sets his bottle down on the floor with a dull thud. He clasps his hands together tightly.

“Crowley, I happen to like you as you are, Heaven help me.” He smiles at that, knowing the irony will not be lost on Crowley. “I came here today hoping we might come up with something better than Raising you or killing you. Neither holds a great deal of appeal for me, if I’m being honest.”

Crowley drops his wine bottle, spilling the red liquid across the wood floor, but neither of them notice because he’s also surged across the space between them and caught Aziraphale’s face up in his hands, pressing their lips together in a furious kiss.

* * *

Footnotes

1. Well, rather less than immediately, as Aziraphale is, in fact, still there and has not been thrown out.↩

2. Yes, he sees the irony, given what he’s come here to do.↩

3. Though, he does think he’s done quite enough wallowing these last few decades to qualify↩

4. That is to say, out of the backroom of a particularly nasty bookseller in Kent with whom he’s been quarreling.↩


	4. A Nightcap, Unfettered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 Days of Blasphemy, Day 5 - "To bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron"
> 
> (unbeta'd, sorry, it's very late here and I have work in a few hours rip, i tried to catch all the typos, but please dont hesitate to let me know if you spot one)

If anyone had asked Crowley that morning if he thought that he’d be sitting here, pressed so close to Aziraphale that he can feel the angel’s heartbeat in his own chest, he’d have said nothing at all because he’d have been asleep. But, if they had done the polite thing and asked him in his dreams he would have laughed himself silly. 

“Aziraphale isn’t that way,” he’d have told them. 

“Or, maybe he is,” he’d go on, “But not with me.” 

There was no world, he’d thought, that would ever lead to Aziraphale making pleased little noises into Crowley’s mouth. No path that Crowley could have chosen that would mean he learns that Aziraphale’s lower lip is softer than his upper, that the angel likes it when he uses just a little bit of tooth. 

And yet. 

Somehow, here he is. Aziraphale tastes like wine and ozone and something that reminds Crowley of the way an old scroll smells. When Crowley presses closer, digging his fingertips into the feathery hair at the base of Aziraphale’s skull, he tilts his head and his eyes flutter closed and it feels as if every inch of Crowley has been set alight. 

Then, Aziraphale pulls back–not far, just enough to break the kiss–and Crowley tries to follow him, unwilling to stop doing the thing he’s dreamed of for centuries. But, Aziraphale turns his head slightly and reaches up, gently grasping Crowley’s wrists and pulls his hands down from behind his head. He lets them go and suddenly Crowley realizes that he’s straddling Aziraphale wearing only a nightshirt and the corporation he was issued. 

Aziraphale had ended the kiss. 

A hot blush stains his cheeks and he leans back, allowing gravity to help him slip from Aziraphale and stand. His hands are still hovering where Aziraphale let them go, so he forcibly lowers them to his sides[1].

“Ah, perhaps we should both sober up?” Aziraphale asks very quietly. He’s looking at Crowley and the corners of his eyes are crinkled in what Crowley would normally call a smile, but Crowley’s just kissed him and then been denied a second kiss and suddenly he can’t see anything except an angel trying very hard to put on a front of good cheer in the face of unwanted attentions.

Crowley nods, swallows against a bone dry throat, and snaps. The wine tastes foul leaving his body, but that’s no better than he deserves. The world slots back into focus. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley rasps. “I can go, if you want. I- I didn’t meant to take advantage, I’m not that sort of demon, I promise. I can get my assignment reports from Hell if you want, I’ve never–” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cuts in. Crowley looks up at him. He feels sick. What if this is it? They fought last time they spoke. Surely Aziraphale’s pretty words about liking Crowley as he is do not include this sort of behavior. “Of course you aren’t that sort of demon, I hardly think I’d associate with you if you were. I know you’re really rather…,” he trails off with a bit of a rueful grin[2]. “Well, in any case I know you would never do such a thing.” 

An awkward sort of silence descends upon them. Crowley scratches his elbow and casts about for something to break it. He’s never been a fan of sober silence, or at least not this sort. 

(He misses the ease of Rome, though it’s been longer now than the empire ever existed since those halcyon days spent laughing together over wine as the consuls bickered below them.) 

“Ah, so, hrm,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale smiles at him. “Yes, dear?” 

His butter-wouldn’t-melt tone draws a scowl forth from Crowley and suddenly it’s a lot easier to throw himself down in the chair across from Aziraphale and ask, “What have you been doing these last, uh, years?” 

“Twenty years,” Aziraphale tells him. Crowley slots the information away, eighteen eighty-two. He wonders what the world outside is like. Suddenly his ‘sleep away the next few hundred years’ plan seems far less appealing. “And to tell you the truth, it hasn’t been terribly exciting. I joined a gentleman’s club and that’s a rather good time, but otherwise the world is the same as it always was.” Aziraphale pauses and catches Crowley’s eye. “If not a bit more boring, without you around.” 

Crowley blinks at him, shocked to silence by the blatant honesty.

Aziraphale laughs, a quiet, rueful thing and Crowley understands the feeling. 

“That’s–” Crowley’s words fade away once more. 

“I know,” Aziraphale says, “It’s dangerous to say such things. But, bby my reckoning, I’m allowed it. I am here on orders from the Archangel Michael herself, in a demon’s house, and I’ve just kissed him–”

“I kissed you.” 

“Semantics, dear.” The corner of Aziraphale’s smile ticks over from rueful to mischievous and it’s all Crowley can do not to kiss him again. “The point is, if they’re watching, the worst has already been done and if they’re not, then there’s no point in not saying the truth, is there?” 

Crowley stays quiet, thinking this through. 

“I… I didn’t expect this today,” he finally says and it’s his own truth. 

Aziraphale laughs again, warmer this time. “No, no I was a bit surprised myself. Quarterly reviews are usually far less exciting.” 

Crowley snorts and Aziraphale smiles and just like that whatever tension there is remaining in the room drains away. Crowley pulls his legs up into the chair, taking care to tuck them into the nightshirt so he doesn’t flash Aziraphale, and rests his chin atop his knees.

“I should like to kiss you again,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley takes a shuddering breath. His eyes feel caught on his own hands. This corporation has been with him for a while and there are tiny scars that criss-cross the pads of his fingers from a near-miss in the early days of the sixteenth century. He’s stared at those scars for the last three hundred years. They’re more familiar than nearly anything on earth. 

Anything save Aziraphale. 

“Why?” he asks. 

He’s still not looking at Aziraphale, but he hears a sharp intake of breath. 

“Well, it felt nice, I thought.” There’s a laugh to Aziraphale’s voice and it’s an icicle through Crowley’s slowly thawing heart. He lowers his feet to the floor and stands to leave, unwilling to stay and be laughed at. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It did.” 

Crowley takes one step towards the door before Aziraphale reaches out and clasps a hand around his wrist. The angel doesn’t squeeze or pull, but Crowley knows with every fiber of his being that he cannot pull away. It should be a frightening thought, any other demon would rather chew off their hand than allow an angel to capture them so. His skin might be soft, the hold loose, but it is iron as sure as if it were a manacle. 

He only realizes he’s trembling when Aziraphale brushes his thumb across the thin skin across his pulse point and releases him. Crowley pulls his hand to his chest, reflexively rubbing away non-existent hurt. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have stopped you from leaving.” Aziraphale nods to the door. “You needn’t stay, or I suppose I can go, if you’d like. I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” 

Crowley would really like to understand what is happening even once today. 

“Aziraphale, I…,” he trails off, unsure of what he’d intended to respond to or what he’s meant to be doing or saying. 

Aziraphale sighs and shifts his weight back and forth a bit, fiddling with his watch chain with the hand that hadn’t just held Crowley in place. “It’s all right. I don’t really know what I’m doing here either.” 

“Apparently not following Heaven’s orders,” Crowley says. Then, it dawns on him what he’d said. He whips around and stares at Aziraphale, meeting his eyes for the first time since Aziraphale pulled away from the kiss. “Wait, what the fuck[3]? Why aren’t you following Heaven’s orders? You’ll Fall!” 

Then, in a moment Crowley is sure he will remember for the rest of time, Aziraphale shrugs[4]. 

“I might,” he says and _there_ is the upset Crowley had been expecting, in the shake of his voice and the way his fingers move that much faster over his watch chain. “But, the alternative is to violate every part of your trust in me. I don’t think I’d last very long as an angel after that anyway.” 

Crowley stares at him. 

“You…. You think Raising me would make you Fall?” 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes. I cannot imagine how one could commit such a cruel act and still remain a member of the Host.” He pauses and the rueful smile flashes across his face again. “Michael, of course, doesn’t know you and doesn’t know what she’s asking me to do. I’m sure if I had the opportunity to explain to her, she would see the right of things.” 

There it is. Oh how Crowley hates that reflexive defense of Heaven. But, today is not the day to argue with Aziraphale about that, not when he’s already decided to defy Heaven in one way. Crowley’s spent too many years ensuring that Aziraphale does not come to harm through their association for that. 

He turns on his heel and crosses back over to sit beside Aziraphale. Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath he asks, “Do you still want to kiss again?” 

Aziraphale’s answering smile is worth more than anything in the world. He twists slightly, lifting one knee up onto the bed so he can more easily lift his hands to cradle the sides of Crowley’s face. That’s nearly too much, nearly overwhelming on it’s own. Aziraphale’s hands are firebrands, heating Crowley’s blood as it passes beneath them, turning it to magma running through his veins. Then, just when he thinks he’ll discorporate from that feeling alone, Aziraphale leans in and presses his lips to Crowley’s. 

Crowley has, reluctantly[5] read the various romance novels that make the rounds of the social elite. He spoke with Shakespeare and indulged him in hours of wordplay about one’s Great Love. He was there when Eve first tried to explain to her sons what love felt like. 

Crowley has always thought the way humans described it all to be fanciful mortal nonsense. 

He gets it now. 

Aziraphale’s lips are soft and cool, they soothe the flames within him even as he grips the sides of Crowley’s face more firmly and fans them. He moves them slightly, capturing Crowley’s lower lip between his teeth and Crowley moans. He reaches out, desperate to touch more of Aziraphale, and it’s only when his fingertips graze the generous curve of Aziraphale’s belly that he realizes what he’d just done. 

Oh, Satan. He’d moaned. 

He tries to pull back, to apologize, but before he can do more than yank his hands away from Aziraphale’s stomach, Aziraphale’s tongue is pressing at the seam of his lips and he’s so startled by the sensation that he mouth automatically opens and then the world narrows to the singularly strange sensation of Aziraphale’s wet tongue slipping over the top of Crowley’s, shallowly at first and then with increasing passion as Crowley responds eagerly. 

He cannot believe the humans have been _underselling_ this for all these years. 

Eventually, Aziraphale pulls back. He’s panting and flushed and his hair is mussed where Crowley had, without realizing he was doing so, run one hand through it. The quilts on the bed are pressed into the side of his face and it’s only then that Crowley realizes they’ve tipped over on their sides. 

Slowly, Crowley reaches out and touches the side of Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale turns and presses a feather-light kiss to the inside of Crowley’s wrist

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice is ragged. Aziraphale is looking at him through his lashes, pupils blow so wide they appear nearly black. “Angel, please.” Crowley isn’t even quite sure what he’s asking for, but he knows if he doesn’t get it right that moment he _will_ discorporate. 

Aziraphale’s hand wanders from Crowley’s face to his hip, skimming across the places where the fabric of his nightshirt has bunched together, and finally coming to rest just over the place where Crowley’s hipbone presses close to the skin. “May I?” he asks, hand hovering over Crowley. 

Crowley nods frantically. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand and holds it tight to his body and then he squeaks[6] as Aziraphale yanks him close, all that strength from before casually displayed. 

Aziraphale seems to read something in his face because he pauses and peers at Crowley with the same expression he normally wears to examine particularly interesting tomes on long dead people. “Oh, my dear,” he says. 

Crowley, who has given up on recapturing Aziraphale’s lips anytime soon and is instead attempting to kiss his way down Aziraphale’s jaw and neck to his Adam’s apple[7] murmurs a question against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale shivers at the sensation which in turn draws another low moan from Crowley. He felt that vibration in his _toes._ He doesn’t currently have an effort but there’s something wonderful and fizzy that seems to be spreading across his entire being. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Aziraphale asks when he has found the words. Crowley, a mere two kisses away from his target, pauses and looks up. 

“Never wanted to with anyone but you,” he says as honestly as he can manage. “And I didn’t think you would ever want to touch me like this.” He brushes one hand across Aziraphale’s where it still clutches his hip. 

“Is that alright?” Crowley asks, suddenly insecure. What if Aziraphale wants more experience than he has? It’s a ridiculous, human, thought and he cannot help but entertain it. 

Aziraphale kisses him gently, a mere peck on the forehead that is over before Crowley can even begin to contemplate abandoning his quest for the adam’s apple in favor of making out with Aziraphale again. 

“Of course it is, my dear. But, perhaps we can slow things down a bit first?”

Crowley nods. “Anything you want,” He says. “As long as you stay here with me.” 

Aziraphale’s smile is slightly sad and Crowley winces at how very vulnerable he’s made himself there. He hates the idea that Aziraphale can so easily see all the places where he’s broken and the rot of hell is spilling forth. 

But then, it’s all okay because Aziraphale says, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

* * *

Footnotes

1. How does he normally hold his hands? Surely they don’t usually look quite this awkward?↩

2. Crowley knows he is about to say ‘nice’, and he appreciates the self-censorship, far too much has already happened today for him to hear insults like that.↩

3. The first written occurrence of “what the hell” is recorded in the early 1900s, roughly 20 years after this fic. Expletives are always used in speech before they are used in print and ‘fuck’ has been a common curse word since the 1500s. All of this is to say that Crowley said ‘lead balloon’ in Eden and I did more research than I needed to for a thinly veiled smut fic.↩

4. One day he’ll sit down and laugh so hard he cries about it; an _angel_ of the _Lord_ shrugging his perfect shoulders at the idea of Falling from Her Grace. Patently ridiculous.↩

5. Not reluctantly at all, he adores them and hates that fact about himself.↩

6. Demons do not squeak, Crowley will tell Anathema one day, she will not quite manage to believe him.↩

7. He’s always wanted to do that for the irony alone.↩


	5. Worth the... Well, you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blasphemy, day 6 prompt: I deserve, but give to me, oh! Such a mark of love - union with thyself! Can this be? 
> 
> Chapter warnings: discussion of dreamed major character death
> 
> (just an update to the schedule for blasphemy haha; there are only 10 chapters here bc I combined days 3 and 4, and Day 9 is posted as a separate, unrelated fic)
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to sosobriquet, D20Owlbear, and CumaeanSibyl for helping me noodle things through and Dashicra1 for the beta <3

“So, when you said slow things down a bit,” Crowley says, wriggling a bit closer. “That didn’t mean _stop_ , right?” 

Aziraphale laughs. “No," he says, “I didn’t mean stop.” 

“Good,” Crowley whispers, “Never been much good at stopping.” He holds up one finger when Aziraphale’s mouth curls in a teasing smile[1] and leans forward to kiss him again. 

Though it was the wine that had loosened his tongue, Crowley hadn’t been overly dramatic when he described his dreams. “That must have been a terrible dream,” Aziraphale had said and he had been right. 

Crowley dreamed of waking to a world where their Arrangement had been discovered and Aziraphale punished in Crowley’s place. A world where Aziraphale had needed him and called out to him and Crowley hadn’t heard, or he’d heard and been too hurt by their argument to go to him, or he tried to go and been too slow…. The exact reason for Crowley’s absence is never quite the same[2], and he can’t remember which it was this time. Only that he’d tried and failed to save Aziraphale, arriving mere moments after the angel was destroyed. It takes everything in him not to look down and check his fingers for the ash that had covered them, the remnants of everything he’d loved, bonded to his skin as he scrabbled about in the snow for something, anything at all that remained of Aziraphale. 

It’s easier to forget the dream when Aziraphale is kissing him. 

Or, not to forget but to shove it aside until he is alone again. Later, when Aziraphale has left and Crowley’s side positively aches from the press of empty air, he’ll take it back out and worry the edges until it’s smooth as obsidian and twice as sharp.

Aziraphale kisses him slowly this time. There’s still passion there, but it’s a banked fire under an iron kettle instead of the out of control grassfire from before. 

Once more Aziraphale’s mouth opens, halfway between teasing and demanding and once more Crowley cannot help the faint whimper that escapes him. Aziraphale seems to take the noise as a challenge because he deepens the kiss, his tongue presses firmly in, hot and slick, even as his hands begin to wander. One grips him tightly, right at the place where his ribs tuck inward, where the protections of bone end and leave him vulnerable. As Aziraphale’s tongue maps the inside of Crowley’s mouth, as Crowley discovers that Aziraphale tastes like wine and the warm buzz of a bee over-burdened by pollen, his fingers clench. They dig into Crowley’s side, tight enough to ache just a little and it’s that ache that has Crowley’s hips twitching upward. It doesn’t hurt, not really. It’s like the sharp sting of whiskey or the bite of the first breath of cold air in the middle of winter[3]. It’s all the little pains that he sought out without quite knowing why. Perhaps because they made him feel something, anything at all, when other sorts of feelings seem too far away or too close for comfort. Perhaps, because he’s a demon and demons are meant to like uncomfortable things. 

Perhaps because he’s always wondered what it would be like to be held so securely by Aziraphale, even if he never allowed himself to put the desire to anything more permanent that hazy wanting before now. 

Perhaps, it is simply that he likes the idea that Aziraphale wants to hold him and would have enjoyed the feeling no matter how Aziraphale wished to do it. 

The other hand wanders Crowley’s back. It starts low, slipping around the narrow place above his hips and tucking between him and the sheets he lays upon, and at first Crowley can almost forget it’s there[4]. It moves slowly, up his spine to the very base of his neck before retreating once more, following the long planes of Crowley back down. A few passes in this manner, and then Aziraphale bites Crowley’s lower lip and slips the hand beneath Crowley’s nightshirt in a single moment and Crowley moans, the dual sensation of bright pain and warm fingers splayed across him is nearly overwhelming. 

He throws his head back, breaking the kiss but unable to hold still as the hand at his hip tightens again and the one on his back begins another achingly slow ascent. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind, before Crowley can even begin to recover enough of his wits to recapture the angel’s lips he’s already ducked his head and begun laying a languid line of kisses along Crowley’s throat. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groans, “Angel, please, please.” 

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale murmurs, lips never leaving Crowley’s pulse point and his entirely unnecessary heartbeat is racing, knowing that Aziraphale can feel it, that the effect he has on Crowley is so very obvious there. 

Oh. 

There and lower. 

Crowley realizes for the first time that the smooth skin between his legs is ablaze. His hips twitch upward again as Aziraphale kisses the point of his left collarbone and his hand slides across Crowley’s spine with just enough pressure to lift Crowley ever-so-slightly into the kiss. They meet the solid bulk of Aziraphale’s thigh as it presses in and the feeling throws wild sparks across Crowley’s vision. He does it again.

Again. 

Again. Chasing that brilliant pulse of feeling. His entire world is made up of Aziraphale’s hands and lips and the little, pleased sounds Aziraphale makes as he traces his way across the front of Crowley’s throat. All combine and melt and tumble into the feeling between Crowley’s legs. 

Eventually, he realizes he’s begging. The words aren’t even coherent, nothing more than broken syllables, bitten off hisses, and Aziraphale’s name, over and over, the only meaningful thing he can say[5]. 

Then, he presses forward again just as Aziraphale’s roving hand dips lower than previous passes had taken it, his pinky slipping into the divot just below the base of Crowley’s spine[6], and the combined sensation rips a broken cry from Crowley’s throat. All the feelings stop. 

Crowley blinks open eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut. Aziraphale’s face is very close to his, closer than he’d expected. He’s smiling. 

His hand hasn’t moved. 

“Dearest?” Aziraphale’s eyes bore into Crowley’s, dark with what Crowley can now see is desire. Aziraphale desires him. Of course, he probably could have guessed that from the kissing and the actual, verbal talk of sex. But, guessing or hearing are very different than seeing the way the angel’s pupils have blown wide, than feeling the way his thigh practically shakes as he tries to hold himself back from slotting it still closer between Crowley’s legs. 

“I want,” Crowley begins and then he has to swallow because he’s not used to actually saying what he wants. He swallows and very determinedly does not look at Aziraphale’s lips. They’ll be damp, kiss-swollen, and Crowley won’t be able to resist catching them up with his own again. “I want you,” he finally manages. 

The corners of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. Crowley has always loved that about his face, the way the whole thing seems to fold up on itself when he’s happy. He’s spent entire decades consumed with thoughts of how to see that expression again. 

“That’s good,” Aziraphale tells him, “I want you, too.” The hand that still grips Crowley’s hip flexes a little and Crowley whines. 

“I don’t, I’m not sure,” Crowley trails off, unsure how to word what it is he wishes to say. “I know how sex works,” he says. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Aziraphale mimics back and it doesn’t even sting, not when they’re wrapped around each other, not when Aziraphale is holding him and smiling at him the way he is. 

“But, I don’t, I mean I’ve never, ah, well. Done it. I know how! I just don’t know, er, how to get to that how, if you follow my meaning.” 

Aziraphale studies him for a long moment. Crowley isn’t afraid that he’s scared him off, not really, but by the time Aziraphale speaks again Crowley’s positive he’s going to say they should slow down again, that clearly Crowley isn’t ready for this. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale says slowly, “We could figure that out together?” 

Crowley blinks up at him. 

“What?” 

Aziraphale’s smile grows a bit wider. “Well, I’ve ah, dallied, with humans before-” Crowley’s chest is awash with a heady mix of pride and jealousy “-though, of course, never any I cared for as I do you.” He catches Crowley’s eyes and seems to be trying to say something more, but Crowley doesn’t understand the message. “Do you know the thing I learned in my encounters?” 

Crowley shakes his head. 

“No two are quite alike.” Aziraphale’s gaze goes a bit distant now. “Some like to jump right in, no dancing around it, all teeth and hands and oil. Others prefer to be slowly coaxed towards their peak.” He looks at Crowley again. “I’m quite excited to discover what you enjoy, my dear.”

“Gnaph.” 

Aziraphale laughs. “Is that so? I’m afraid I’ve never gnaphed.” 

A beat passes. And then another. And then Crowley snickers and Aziraphale laughs and soon Aziraphale has collapsed entirely atop Crowley and Crowley’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him close and his laughter is shaking them both as his stomach moves with it. 

When their mirth finally peters away, Aziraphale reaches up and cups Crowley’s face in his hands. “You liked pressure here,” he reaches down between their bodies with one hand and lays it gently across the place between Crowley’s legs. Crowley nods. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Felt like, like, I don’t know. I’ve, ah, pleasured myself before. Felt different than that. Wider? Less, uh, focused.” 

Aziraphale nods. 

“You’ve no Effort right now,” he says. “If we’re to discover how we like each other best, that seems an ideal place to start.” 

He shifts back and forth a bit and Crowley feels the frisson of an angelic Miracle. 

“Did you just,” he flutters one hand away from them and arches his brow. 

Aziraphale snorts again. “My dear, please.” He copies the hand motion. “I miracled away my own, leveling the playing field, as it were. It didn’t go flying away.” 

“You’re an ass, you know that, yeah?” 

Aziraphale shifts back, swinging one leg out and over Crowley’s so that he straddled the meat of Crowley’s left thigh. He grunts and sighs as he lowers his weight down, and Crowley realizes that he’s feeling the same thing Crowley did before. The thought is electric. 

Eyes locked on Aziraphale’s face, Crowley gently lifts his knee, increasing the pressure on Aziraphale’s core. The angel sighs again, rocking down onto Crowley. His eyes have fluttered closed, and when Crowley’s leg presses up again, he tilts forward, allowing one hand to take his weight as the other finds the spot that had Crowley seeing stars before. This time, when Crowley meets the downward thrust of Aziraphale’s hips with his leg, Aziraphale reflects the pressure with his hand and Crowley arches his back, feeling as if every nerve in his corporation is simultaneously trying to escape and coil around itself. 

They settle into a sort of half-rhythm; Aziraphale guides their speed, rising and falling on his knees as Crowley chases him, his leg feeling strange and bare when not pressed to the crux of Aziraphale’s legs. There’s so much fabric there still, so much separating them, but Crowley fancies that he can feel the heat of Aziraphale and that imagined warmth along with the very real tremors he can feel travelling up Aziraphale’s thighs will haunt him for the rest of his days. 

“May I?” Aziraphale asks, breathless. 

Crowley drags his gaze around and sees the fabric of his nightshirt pinched between Aziraphale’s thick fingers. He swallows and nods. Aziraphale’s hand drops lower and then slides up Crowley’s inner thigh, the light calluses on his fingertips are ever so slightly rough against the smooth skin there[7]. As they rise up his leg, his nightshirt rises too and the cool air that rushes in sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine. 

Aziraphale doesn’t linger, doesn’t hesitate, but Crowley is still nearly undone with the wanting of it when his hand finally reaches its goal.

 _Warm,_ Crowley thinks, rutting into it mindlessly. _Strong._ Aziraphale bears down on him again, his face a mask of rapture, and Crowley thinks surely this must be a dream because it makes no sense otherwise. How can someone so very Good find any sort of pleasure at all in a thing like Crowley? How can he even begin to– 

Aziraphale’s fingers crook, cupping the whole of the smooth skin between Crowley’s legs, and Crowley’s thoughts flutter away like so many butterflies. The tingling, aching sensation he’s been chasing explodes across his corporation, and as Aziraphale begins to knead at him, the feeling echoes out through the long, looping coils of his true shape. 

The universe had begun with a bang, the violent explosion of raw material bursting forth from nothing at all the first time God opened Her Eyes. When he’d still been an angel, Crowley had labored over tiny recreations of that first beautiful violence. Stars and nebula and the explosions between individual atoms of the most basic building blocks. He’s lost much of what Heaven was, but he’s never lost the phantom sensation of potentiality, of creation, in his fingers. 

Now, it’s like there’s a new universe being created within Crowley. Tightening, coiling, pressing, closer and closer, infinitely dense and then still denser than that. Without manifesting human parts, there is nowhere for the feeling to focus, so it rolls through the entirety of him in waves, scooping up whatever remains and holding it close. 

Aziraphale’s breath comes faster now, his movements less steady, though no less sure. Crowley can feel something from him, like lust but not quite. It’s heady and dizzying and he has to ground himself in the physical mechanics of their bodies for a bit after he brushes too closely against whatever it is that Aziraphale is projecting. Aziraphale still cups him, alternating feather light touches and tight grips and Crowley’s thigh is just damp enough with their combined sweat that the fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers sticks to him as he angles his leg upward once again, meeting Aziraphale’s downward thrust and delighting in the broken moan that spills from the angel. 

He wants to taste that sound, so he leans up and kisses Aziraphale. Once on the lips and then in a meandering, pleasure-fueled path down his chin and neck to the soft skin of his chest. Aziraphale moans again when Crowley sucks a round mark into his chest, hips stuttering as he tries to keep some semblance of his rhythm. His fingers splay out across Crowley reflexively and the change in feeling is enough to send Crowley toppling over the edge. 

Crowley shakes apart under Aziraphale’s hand, the tight ball of pleasure deep inside him explodes outward, taking everything else with it. He thinks he might be speaking, something ancient and beyond himself, the dialect of Heaven that had been his first tongue perhaps, something slow and massive and utterly foreign to his corporation[8]. But then, this sort of pleasure is foreign to it as well. 

When Crowley comes back to himself, Aziraphale is smiling at him. He still straddles Crowley’s leg, and his hands are still on his hip and the join between his legs. The touch is light now, nothing more than a ghost of contact, but Crowley is glad for it. He thinks that if Aziraphale had pulled away entirely, he might have panicked in a rather embarrassing way. 

“Hi,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale laughs and kisses his nose and asks, “Are you still all right, my dear?” 

Crowley nods. Then shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. “Better than fine. That was…. I mean to say… You’re telling me we could have been doing that all along and I was mucking about with dangly bits and wrist strain?” 

Aziraphale laughs again, eyes sparkling with joy. He’s still radiating that not-lust feeling. It fizzes across Crowley’s still sensitive boundaries, and he finds himself wanting to curl into it, to bask in the sunshine warmth. 

“You know that’s not quite how humans do things,” he says. 

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling dopily up at Aziraphale. “I am a demon, I do tempt people, angel.” 

Aziraphale finally releases Crowley’s hip and reaches up with both hands to cup the sides of his face. “You do at that,” he says, and then he kisses Crowley, and Crowley wonders how in the world he’s ever going to cope with losing this. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. Aziraphale has, after all, seen Crowley try to control a horse. Stopping is the least of his concerns, but still far outside the scope of his abilities.↩

2. So very many things could go wrong, after all. That was the thought that had originally steeled Crowley spine against the terror of having Holy Water in his possession; that one day Hell will come for him and when that happens it will mean Heaven is coming for Aziraphale and it will be Crowley’s fault because the Arrangement was his stupid, selfish idea.↩

3. Step outside, take one breath because you have to, you have to feel the bite to know it’s all real, and then hold it because the sky is clear and you can see it all, all the way up to the stars and they never twinkle more than they do on the coldest nights because the one who made them wanted the people looking up to remember that fire exists, even in the long, cold dark of the year. Crowley hates the cold, but he loves the burn.↩

4. And really, who can blame him, given what the other hand and mouth are engaged in?↩

5. There’s something there, something about himself that Crowley would really rather not think about, thank you.↩

6. Below his _sacrum_ , some very distant part of Crowley thinks, half-hysterically. He doesn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate the joke just now.↩

7. Someone who doesn’t know Aziraphale the way Crowley does would probably say that the calluses are evidence of his martial abilities or some such nonsense. In truth, they speak to his love of the written word and the hours he spends enjoying it. Crowley loves the hard places on Aziraphale’s hands for the very fact that they come from him being soft.↩

8. It’s the ancient pulse of the stars, the gravitational pull of a tiny body on a massive one, freefall but not falling, of being caught in an orbit and being safe precisely because you’re falling and not in spite of it. Aziraphale’s Heavenly dialect was rather different in those early days before days existed; a language made up of the rapid, empty breaths when you’re running to defend that which you love, the well of strength you only find when you’ve lost everything else, and the little twitch in your chin as you raise it in defiance of those who will not listen. A stubborn sort of language that he’d never quite felt comfortable using, so he simply didn’t, instead defaulting to the neutral, emotionless tones of the shared spaces between spheres.↩


	6. Conduct Unbecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for day 7: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate. 
> 
> Warning for references to fatphobia/internalized fatphobia, toxic work environment (on par with canon).
> 
> also! i have added some art to chapter 3 <3

They lay in comfortable silence for a short eternity. Aziraphale maps the contours of Crowley’s throat, tracing first his fingertips and then the pads over the swell of his Adam’s apple and down to the divot between his collarbones. Each time he does he lingers on the fluttering pulse, the way he can feel the slight vibrations as Crowley breathes. Their skin is slightly different colors. He’d known of course, Crowley has a pink undertone while Aziraphale tends towards a cooler shade, and the demon has always been paler than him. Aziraphale tans quickly and easily, Crowley tends to burn and peel unattractively unless he remembers to Miracle the damaged skin. Aziraphale cannot think of even one instance when he’d remembered to do so. It’s endlessly charming[1]. 

Crowley hums in pleasure each time Aziraphale’s fingers swipe up his throat again, so he keeps doing it, a gentle rhythm that lulls him into introspection. 

Crowley’s hands keep drifting to Aziraphale’s sides, to the places where fat has gathered and created folds, where the skin of his corporation is striped with paler marks. Aziraphale knows from his own extended inspection of those places that the pale scars are softer than the surrounding skin, though their ability to detect touch seems unaffected. He’d once spent nearly an entire afternoon in front of the silvered mirror hidden away inside the door of the wardrobe in the flat above the bookshop, tracing the thin lines with his fingertips and worrying at his lower lip. 

The thing is, Aziraphale rather likes the stripes. He likes the fat that has caused them, likes the way it fills his own hands and makes him feel sturdy, strong. He was created to defend and protect and he likes that the fat means he can do both without scaring those he’s meant to be guarding. He’d ended that day in front of the mirror with a smile on his face and the conviction that his corporation might not be exactly as God issued it to him, but it is exactly as it is meant to be. 

Except. 

Well. 

The command to Raise Crowley was not the only thing that Michael spoke with him about during his quarterly evaluation. 

Angels were meant to be fighting fit, she’d said. Then, she’d glanced at where his waistcoat tucked close to his hips and the very corner of her mouth had twitched. 

“Your skills with a sword have not diminished,” she had said, sounding almost disbelieving[2]. “However, your commanding officer is concerned that, if called upon to fight the Adversary, you would not have the endurance needed to outlast their wiles.” 

Aziraphale had, of course, tried to argue that he’d managed to outlast Hell’s only Earthly Representative quite well, thank you very much, but Michael had not seemed to hear him. 

When he received the paper version of his report to sign off on, there was a note under “Principality’s Fitness for the Rank” that read; 

_The Principality Aziraphale seems not to care for the state of his corporation and at the time of this evaluation, appears to have fallen prey to no small degree of gluttony. Perhaps the Raising of the Demon Crawly (see Section 1.4.5-B, above), will eliminate the source of temptation towards sin._

For the first time in his existence, Aziraphale had felt a small curl of shame about the shape he prefers. 

Now, as Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s side and cranes his head upward, pressing his forehead to padding above Aziraphale’s collarbone, the curl of shame grows. Crowley’s corporation is nothing like his own. It’s all angles and narrow places and the hollows where skin dips low and shadows rush in. Aziraphale has spent centuries stealing glances at it, hoarding away the memory of each peak and valley in his own mental map and then unrolling it to chart an imaginary course in the long hours of the night. 

He knows that human standards of beauty are ever shifting and that Aziraphale’s own form has far more often been the one which calls to the humans baser desires, but it is hard to imagine that one so fine crafted as Crowley finds pleasure in– 

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Crowley murmurs, voice muffled by Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale tries to force the thoughts away, tries to tell himself that he must trust that Crowley would not be forcing himself to do anything that he did not find enjoyable. Perhaps the demon need not find his corporation attractive at all. After all, it’s not as if this is what Aziraphale really looks like[3]. 

_The Principality Aziraphale ... appears to have fallen pretty to no small degree of gluttony._

“Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale shakes himself, drawing the scattered lines of his thoughts back in as he blinks down at Crowley. 

“I’m terribly sorry, dear boy,” he says, trying to force a smile. “I’m afraid I drifted there for a moment.” He leans down and lays an open-mouthed kiss at the thin spot on Crowley’s neck where his heart can be felt best. He’s hardly settled in, barely tasted the salt-sharp tang of Crowley before the demon’s hand is on the side of Aziraphale’s jaw. 

He doesn’t move. 

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice is very quiet. “You were,” he pauses and swallows. Aziraphale watches his Adam's apple jerk. “You were trembling.” 

He does not try to turn Aziraphale’s face towards his, does nothing more than wait, his fingers resting lightly against Aziraphale’s jaw. That, more than his words, is what undoes Aziraphale. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the salt on his lips. 

When the first drop hits Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale follows it, intending to kiss it away. He ends up pressing his face tight to the narrow crook of skin, breathing in deeply[4]. Crowley’s arms leave his sides and wrap around him, erasing all distance between their bodies as he pulls him close. 

Crowley runs cool, he always has, and now Aziraphale takes comfort in that chill through the thin barrier of his nightshirt. He wonders if Crowley is comforted by the heat Aziraphale knows he radiates. He hopes he is, hopes he can provide the heat that the demon always seems to be chasing. 

The tears are still coming and Aziraphale doesn’t know why, but he can’t seem to stop them. There’s already a damp patch on the collar of Crowley’s nightshirt. 

Crowley’s left hand rubs up and down his back, slowly, steadily, following the planes and contours of his body. 

Aziraphale _likes_ his body. 

He really does. He liked the way Crowley’s hands had felt cradling it and he doesn’t think the evaluation he got in his Quarterly Review is accurate.

“Are you, er, okay?” Crowley asks very quietly. “We didn’t do anything that you didn’t, I mean, you wanted to, ah, do that, right?” 

Aziraphale hates the way Crowley’s voice has gone small and worried. He sniffs and wrestles one arm free so he can snap a handkerchief into his hand. 

“More than anything in the world,” he says, smiling down at Crowley. Crowley’s brow creases. Aziraphale doesn’t blame him. The damned tears are still coming. It’s all sending a rather mixed message. He wipes at his face again with the handkerchief. 

Crowley shifts under him, pulling his arms back so he can rest on his elbows.

“Then what’s all this?” Crowley bites his lower lip and glances away, towards the door, before looking at Aziraphale again. “Did you change your mind?” 

Aziraphale tries in vain to figure out why Crowley is asking the same question twice in a row. Then, he sees the way Crowley can’t quite meet his eyes, how he’s biting his lower lip so hard it’s turned white, feels the subtle tension that thrums through the demon. 

“No!” It’s practically a shout. “No, oh Crowley. I meant what I said. I never once thought about actually doing what they’d ordered me to do.” 

Crowley takes a shuddering breath. 

“Course,” he mutters. “You said that.” He blinks up at Aziraphale. “Then, why?” 

Aziraphale tries to examine the feeling that presses behind his eyes. It’s roiling and hot and overwhelming and it makes the back of his tongue taste like paella[5]. 

Oh, he thinks. _Oh._

“I think I’m…. angry.” 

Crowley blinks at him. 

“At… me?” 

Aziraphale hurries to shake his head. “No, no. Of course not, dear boy.” Michael’s disbelieving look when she’d seen his swordsmanship rating floats before his mind’s eye. “I’m angry, no, _furious_ at Heaven.” 

Crowley’s breath catches. 

“How dare they ask me to do this to you?” Aziraphale says. Then, because now that he’s begun he cannot seem to stop. “How dare they drag me up there and poke and prod and call me gluttonous and act as if they know Earth better than I?” 

“Waitaminute.” 

Aziraphale keeps speaking. “It’s not divine at all! What Godly virtue is there in making someone ashamed of themselves? In taking a good person and twisting them beyond recognition? In hurting you?” The words burn, blister, ache. They taste foul, as if they’ve been rotting in his chest for centuries and now he cannot scrape them from his tongue fast enough. 

“I refuse! I will not do it. I won’t feel bad and I won’t hurt you and I don’t care what they do to–” 

Crowley’s hand is over his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. 

“Stop,” he whispers. His pupils are very nearly round. “Aziraphale, fuck, you can’t say things like that.” 

Aziraphale tries to speak but Crowley’s hand is still blocking him. 

“I- I appreciate that you’re upset,” he says, each word measured carefully. “You don’t want me to Rise, but angel, I don’t want you to Fall. If- If you keep ssssaying thessse thingsss….” He pauses and scowls at the sibilants that have escaped his control. “You will. You’ll Fall.” 

The acrid taste in Aziraphale’s mouth crumbles to ash when he sees the way Crowley’s eyes shine. 

“Please don’t,” Crowley whispers.

Crowley’s hand is still over his mouth, so instead of speaking, Aziraphale kisses his palm. A bright red flush sweeps over Crowley, starting beneath the collar of his nightshirt and creeping up to his hairline. 

“I’ll stop,” Aziraphale promises him, drawing his hand down and clasping it between two of his own. 

They sit in silence for a moment before Crowley’s free hand slides across Aziraphale’s side, over the swell where his stomach turns into his flank. 

“They really said you’re gluttonous?” he asks. 

Aziraphale nods. “They said I’m not, ah, shaped as an angel should be.” 

Crowley’s eyes blaze. “Foolsss,” he hisses. “You’re the best of them. Besides,” he cuts himself off suddenly, the blush deepening. 

“What?” 

Crowley draws a deep breath in through his nose. “Angel, I have been imagining worshiping this body,” his hands clench reflexively on Aziraphale’s side and hand, “for as long as I’ve known you.” 

Aziraphale stares at him. Surely not that long. That would be– 

“Please,” Crowley goes on, “Can I show you?” 

Aziraphale nods. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. Crowley, of course, claims that peeling is just his natural state, given that he’s closer to reptile than mammal on any given day.↩

2. Aziraphale had discovered a lovely little fencing club in the late 1850s that he’d been attending at least once a week for the last few decades. He has discovered that while he always hated the feel of a sword in his hand when they were meant only for destruction and death, he actually quite enjoys the playful, almost delicate, dance back and forth of fencing with no stakes save who must buy the first drink afterward.↩

3. He very firmly ignores that he’s had the same corporation for going on six thousand years and it often feels more _him_ than his ‘true’ form ever did.↩

4. Crowley smells like brimstone and cool silk and dust and that uniquely snakey smell that he can never seem to mask.↩

5. A simple hearty meal turned to a purpose so dark… Aziraphale hasn’t been able to stomach saffron since 1554.↩


	7. Stolen Words, Reclaimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend. Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
> 
> (I promise the connection to the prompt will make sense later, there is one! But it’s spoilers.) 
> 
> warnings: some more discussion of body image in this one, but really just the fallout from last chapter, nothing specific.

Crowley’s nerves, his hesitation, fall away from him the moment Aziraphale starts talking about Heaven. He stops the angel because he has to, there is nothing in the wide universe more terrifying to him than the idea of Aziraphale Falling[1]. He’s calm because Aziraphale isn’t calm and one of them has to be.

But he isn’t really.

Michael had tried to make Aziraphale feel bad about the soft places on him.

Crowley thinks of all the times he’s seen Aziraphale hold a human close, of how they buried their heads in his side and take comfort from his sturdy bulk and how, even outside of all that, Aziraphale’s curves are beautiful and even if they weren’t, even if they were nothing beyond evidence of a life of love and indulgence in the things Aziraphale enjoyed, that would be enough. Who does Michael think she _is_ , anyway?

So, Crowley channels all that fury, all that protective rage, into carefully maneuvering the two of them around so Aziraphale is seated on the bed and Crowley straddles his lap. He reaches out and plucks at the edge of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, looking up at Aziraphale through his lashes.

The angel is biting his lower lip, face flushed. His hands are clenched tightly in the rumpled sheets.

Crowley snorts. “You can touch me,” he says. “Be a bit silly to hold back after all that.”

“Didn’t want to presume,” Aziraphale murmurs[2].

Crowley slides his hands over the worn mustard velvet, his left undoing buttons as the right traces the curved path of his watch fob. “Please always presume,” Crowley leans in and kisses the words into the front of Aziraphale’s throat. He smiles when he feels Aziraphale’s moan before he hears it.

Aziraphale releases the sheets and catches Crowley’s hips. He yanks him in close and tight. The press of his thighs and belly against Crowley’s still sensitive core makes his legs twitch reflexively. He has a sudden idea.

“You, angel, are wearing entirely too many layers.” He slides the now unbuttoned waistcoat off Aziraphale’s shoulders and picks it up, tossing it lightly over his shoulder to the chair he’d been sitting in before. Then, he has to stop and bite his lip because Aziraphale’s braces are bright red silk, the color a shocking blow to any thoughts Crowley might have had about Aziraphale’s undergarments[3].

“Crowl–”

“Red,” Crowley rasps. He blushes and tries to recover. “I mean, ah, braces, I wasn’t expecting your braces to be red. S’not usually a color you wear.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, eyes wide behind his lashes. His lower lip shines in the light and Crowley leans towards him a bit on reflex before he catches himself.

“No, that’s you,” Aziraphale says, voice low.

“What?” When Aziraphale speaks the light dances off his lip, Crowley can barely focus on the words themselves, much less their meaning past that tantalizing sheen. Aziraphale’s hand slides up the bare expanse of Crowley’s left thigh and he shudders.

“The color.” Aziraphale’s hand slides still higher, catching on the sweat-sticky heat of him. “It’s not my usual no, but it is yours.”

Crowley blinks down at him. “You’re wearing red because I normally do?”

“Well, I despaired of seeing the color as often as I was used to after we… ah, disagreed.”

That’s a kind way to put it, Crowley thinks. _Disagreed._ As if it had merely been a tiff over the most appropriate way for Parliament to handle the passage of an Act. As if Crowley hadn’t been begging for help, hadn’t put himself out– No. This isn’t the time to dig that back up. Aziraphale is here because he cannot tolerate the idea of Crowley being hurt and Crowley needs to cling to that thought alone.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale’s hands have stilled on him. Crowley shakes himself; hangs a self-satisfied smile on his face. This is a chance to tease a bit, to get back onto the even footing that’s been out of reach since he woke. He opens his mouth to prod at that, but what comes out is;

“You missed me.”

Aziraphale smiles, soft and sad. “I did.” He seems about to say something else, but Crowley has already endured too many revelations with too little time between them, so he moves and stops Aziraphale’s words with a fierce kiss[4].

Then, he divests Aziraphale of the remainder of his clothing and takes in the sight that is laid before him.

Aziraphale is a vision. He always has been and this isn’t the first time Crowley has seen him bare, but context is everything and it feels new in a way he cannot explain. He has seen Aziraphale’s shoulders innumerable times, but now the almost delicate way their powers slopes down to the gentle swell of his chest takes his breath away. He reaches out and touches, glancing up to confirm that Aziraphale’s gasp is a pleased one, before brushing his fingers across the fine patch of hair right in the center. It’s as white as the hair on his hair and curly, in the perfect middle ground of soft and coarse, and Crowley thinks he could happily spend days petting it. When he allows his fingernails to scratch gently at the skin beneath, Aziraphale gasps again.

“Crowley….” But nothing more follows that.

Crowley closes his eyes and concentrates, feeling the way the diffuse pleasure sharpens and distills, pulling in from the entirety of him to coalesce in a bright core of ecstasy. He nearly topples over that brink just from the feeling of manifesting an Effort alone. When he opens his eyes again, Aziraphale is watching him, cheeks flushed.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says.

Crowley smiles, not because he knows it’s true, though he does know that. His own feelings about his form are irrelevant, unless something has changed dramatically in the last two decades, Crowley is exactly what humans favor. No, he smiles because Aziraphale has given him the perfect opening[5].

He shifts back and pulls his night shirt over his head, baring himself to Aziraphale. It should probably be uncomfortable, being so vulnerable, but it just feels _good._ Physically, his newly formed Effort has rapidly hardened, leaving him light headed and flushed and when he moves it presses against the soft swell of Aziraphale, sending rapid-fire shocks through him. But, more than the physical pleasure is the sense of security; Aziraphale‘s hands are still on him–one on his hip, one on his inner thigh–and they hold him tightly, sure and strong. Aziraphale came here to protect Crowley and Crowley’s entire being feels as if it’s singing at the thought.

He can’t recall ever feeling so good before.

“If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh number all your graces, the age to come would say ‘this poet lies; such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.” Crowley has never been one for the sonnets, but Aziraphale is and Crowley’s own words have always felt so very inadequate.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers. “You don’t need to-”

Crowley catches his hand, intertwining their fingers as he grinds down. His dick is painfully hard now, leaking and smearing on Aziraphale’s stomach.

“I want to,” he pants. “Bless it, Aziraphale, I’d burn every bloody sonnet the man ever wrote except then I’d have no words at all for what you mean to me. You’re…,” he casts about desperately, “You’re the, the, most peerless thing in all Creation, Her most beautiful Work[6].” He pauses and sticks his tongue out, going slightly cross-eyed as he tries to wipe the taste of divinity from his mouth.

Aziraphale giggles.

“You’re clearly besotted,” he says, “You can’t be trusted.”

“Why should that matter?” Crowley carefully rearranges them, pressing Aziraphale’s legs close together and snapping to coat his own hands in sweet-smelling oil. He delights in their smooth slide up first the outside, and then the inside of Azirphale’s thighs.

“Because, ohhh, darling.” Aziraphale’s head rolls back, his eyes fluttering closed. “Because you don’t see the truth of it. Oh!” Crowley squeezes again, allowing the tips of his pointed fingernails to dig in just enough to be felt. Aziraphale moans.

“I’ve seen you that way since you told me you gave your sword away,” Crowley tells him. “I think after a few millenia my views should carry at least a little weight.” He swipes one hand up his dick, grunting at the sensation, before laying himself across Aziraphale, arms bracketing his head on the pillows.

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide. “Crowley, you. That’s is to say, you needn’t– I don’t want–”

Crowley freezes, waiting.

“I want to show you what you do to me,” he says very slowly when it becomes apparent Aziraphale cannot find the words to go on. “I’ve dreamed of you, of your body, in any form you wish to take, for so long and I cannot tolerate the idea that those bas- that anyone should make you feel less.”

Aziraphale kisses him, hungry and needful, biting at his lower lip and keening in want when Crowley begins to move again. He shifts, presses, and groans as Aziraphale’s thighs tighten around his length. The fire of creation that Aziraphale had lit within him before, that he’d gathered up and pressed to a star in his core, flares brighter. Everything in him seizes, shifts, settles as he begins to thrust.

“Don’t like the gloomy ones,” he pants. “But, got drunk with Bill a few times and the, unh, the bastard kept stealing my lines.”

“Oh, oh!” Aziraphale still has no Effort, but Crowley knows how good pressure and friction can feel even without one. He clings to Crowley, kissing his neck, his collarbones, his chest, every inch of him that he can reach.

This isn’t Crowley’s first time with a dick, far from it. Nor is it his first time using that dick to chase pleasurable feelings. But, he’s always been alone before. He’s never had the smell of someone else around him, the pale expanse of Aziraphale against his dark sheets, the smile that curls his lips and then falls away to a wanton moan as Crowley shifts his angle just so….

He’s never had the only thing he ever really wanted out of sex anyway.

Really, it should come as no surprise when the fire leaps and consumes him, when the _good_ feeling tips over into _overwhelmingly perfect._ His hips stutter, his hands reflexively clenching around the sheets and then he’s spilling in the space between Aziraphale’s thighs, his last few jerky thrusts sliding through his own spend as he pants his way through the aftershocks. It's odd, he thinks, how very physical this feels in comparison to what they'd done before. Like, looking up at the sky and seeing the stars and knowing he's filled with them but finding them somehow muted. Not in a bad way, just... different. 

“Michael,” Crowley manages after a moment, “Is bloody wrong.”

Aziraphale snorts and pulls him closer, spreading his legs when Crowley whines because it feels _good_ still, but also just one the wrong side of too much.

“I can see that,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You’re very persuasive, dearheart.”

“Champion tempter, me.”

Crowley closes his eyes and breathes in deep and holds Aziraphale as tightly as he can. There’s so much for them to talk about, so many things left to resolve, he’s not even sure–

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Aziraphale says. “Breathe, we’ll figure it out.”

“ _You're_ thinking loudly,” Crowley mimics back. But, he allows his eyes to slip closed and his breathing to deepen to something approaching sleep even as he feels Aziraphale do the same beneath him.

* * *

1. In about one hundred and forty years, on a perfect day in August (allowing for the occasional Trout Shower), Crowley will discover that there is, in fact, one thing he fears more than Aziraphale Falling.↩

2. Crowley doesn’t know it, but Aziraphale is thinking of the flash of doubt, of fear, in Crowley’s voice as he’d asked if Aziraphale had changed his mind.↩

3. Not that he’d thought about Aziraphale’s undergarments before. That would be entirely beyond the pale. Except. Well, who _wouldn’t_ think about the way Aziraphale’s fingers must have looked tying up his braies, how the thin leather cords would have tugged at the pads of his fingers, how the-↩

4. The shine tastes as good as it looked.↩

5. It’s too early for Crowley to invent ‘that’s what she said’ jokes, but please know that a part of him perks up at this thought.↩

6. He’s misquoting here, but he cannot bring himself to limit Aziraphale’s beauty to that which the sun has shone upon.↩


	8. Imagine A Rather Tasteless Joke About Astronomical Bangs Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. 
> 
> Again, the connection to the prompt will be made clear later ;* 
> 
> massive thanks to [Pyracantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha) for holding my hand and helping me finish this dingdang thing. 
> 
> There is a nsfw image right before the footnotes. 
> 
> Warning for dreamed aftermath of MCD, it is not graphically described
> 
> (unbeta'd, my sincerest apologies for missed typos)

Melted demon smells like burnt toffee. Aziraphale scowls, crinkling his nose and trying to will the cloying stench away through sheer stubbornness. It doesn’t work.

“Really now,” he mutters, closing his book and standing. He’s in his bookshop, he realizes though he’s not sure why he’d think anything different. It’s not like he sees anyone, has anywhere to go. Not since he and– Well, not in a long time. Other angels come to Earth sometimes now, using his shop as a sort of way point to get their bearings and alter their outfits before setting off for their missions. 

One of them must have quarreled with a demon and brought the horrid smell back with them. 

“Cahariel, is that you?” He calls as he makes his way towards the front of the shop. The angel isn’t one of the regulars, but she is the only one who sticks around long enough for a cuppa so she’s his favorite by default. She doesn’t answer and his scowl deepens. Cahariel always answers which means the carrier of the terrible stench isn’t her. 

Michael was in just last week and he doesn’t expect to see her again for at least a fortnight, not with the number of swords she’d been carrying. No matter the changed circumstances, Gabriel still doesn’t deign to work on Earth, so Aziraphale is quite sure it’s not him. Hamael and Greniel were in Asia the last he heard, though maybe something had gone awry with– 

He enters the main room and his steps stutter to a stop. 

The smell is stronger here, overpowering. It’s burnt toffee and overripe fruit and the fetid rot of meat left in the damp and sun. It smells like life and love, taken and twisted and befouled. He tries to stop breathing but the smell seems to twine around his ethereal senses all the stronger. It skates around his loops and rings, making his eyes sting and burn. This is not merely the remnants of a smell carried on boots or in the folds of one’s coat; it is the scent of violation and intrusion and it is _in his home._

He scans the room, searching for the source. Surely there should be an angel, an aggressor, someone to have dealt the final blow. 

But he sees no one save his own reflection in the silvered mirror tilted between two bookshelves. He looks pale, wan. 

There’s a ceramic cup in his hand. 

He looks down, startled to see it because he has no memory of carrying it from his study. The ceramic is wam in his hand, the inside damp with the memory of water. 

A glint of light on the floor catches his eye. 

_Ah,_ he thinks a tad faintly, _seems I’ve found the demon._

Then, what exactly he’s looking at filters through. 

Spectacles with dark lenses. 

The smell of murdered demon coils around his trueform one final time, and this time Aziraphale recognizes the slithering slip around him as a farewell. The smell of fruit and meat in the sun, cooked to perfection and passed between them as they watched the humans. 

His eyes still burn, still sting. He still doesn’t breathe. His heart doesn’t beat. 

The toffee cake they’d eaten together, sticky and overly-sweet and Crowley had laughed, long and loud when Aziraphale got a bit on his nose. 

The mug in Aziraphale’s hands is damp. 

* * *

Crowley’s hands are on his face when he wakes, thumbs brushing at his cheeks, catching on the damp there. The demon is sprawled across his chest, their skin pressed together. 

It’s not close enough. 

Aziraphale wrestles his arms free of the sheets and wraps them around Crowley, holding him tight. Tighter. He buries his head in the crook of Crowley’s neck and breathes in deep through his nose. He can still smell the phantom scent from the dream, burning, scraping him raw with each shaking inhale.

Crowley doesn't speak, seeming to sense that Aziraphale needs this moment to recenter himself. Aziraphale appreciates the gesture, but he doesn't want Crowley's silence, he never wants Crowley's silence really, and especially not today, not when the guillotine of Michael’s command hangs over them and the burn of his dream eats at his fingers and– 

“Can you talk?” Aziraphale asks[1]. 

Crowley stays silent for half a breath, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s torso, holding him nearly as tightly as Aziraphale’s own grip. Then, he takes a deep breath, ribs expanding under Aziraphale’s bulk, and begins to speak. 

“‘S not often you want me to talk,” he says. Aziraphale pushes his face further into Crowley’s neck, biting back the ragged groan that wants to escape. He _knows,_ with every fiber of his being, that he’s not been fair, that he’s been cold and cruel and– “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Crowley’s nails scrape at his skin a bit, not enough to hurt but enough to remind him that he’s not just holding, but being held as well. 

“I’m a bit annoying on purpose, you know,” Crowley goes on. Aziraphale can hear the wry smile in his voice, can picture the way his left eyebrow would arch upward and his eyes would sparkle. He snorts. “Hey!” Crowley says, “That’s just rude, you don’t have to agree with me, angel. You’re meant to reassure me that ‘no, no, I could never annoy you!’”

That prompts Aziraphale to turn his head just far enough that his mouth is no longer pressed against Crowley’s pulse point. “Angels aren’t meant to lie, my dear,” he manages to say and his voice is even halfway to steady, though he has no clue how. 

“Ha! We both know that’s a load of tosh,” Crowley snickers. “But, taking that on faith–” 

“As is natural.”

“-- _ **taking that on faith**_ ,” Aziraphale’s smile has grown to something approaching a full grin now, “I’d be a terrible angel. Serpent’s tongues are natural liars and I’m tragically afflicted.” 

“That rumor started because of _you,_ ” Aziraphale points out. Crowley jabs him in the ribs and he snorts. 

“I’m feeling very attacked right now,” Crowley tells the 20-years-past fashionable wallpaper. “Angel comes into my home and butters me up with a good time and then insults me.” 

“A good time, hm?” Aziraphale pulls back enough to rest his chin on Crowley’s sternum, gazing down at him. He shifts his arms down, still hugging Crowley close but now wrapped around the small of his back and hips. 

“I bloody well saw stars,” Crowley tells him, letting go long enough to gesture wildly in the air above them. “Big burning balls of gas,” he pauses to glare Aziraphale’s smart remark into submission before continuing, “All spinning around and exploding and getting fusion started– the who shebang!” 

“I’ll try not to let that go to my head,” Aziraphale says. 

“See that you don’t.” 

They lapse into companionable silence, the quiet broken only by the sounds of the house shifting around them and their own breaths. Aziraphale tries to chase the lingering shadows of the dream away by tracing the pale blue veins that race up the sides of Crowley’s neck, searching for the places where each individual trail branches and dips and twines around the others. If he looks hard enough he can almost see the steady pulse of Crowley’s heart. 

“Can I ask what you dreamed about?” Crowley eventually says, tone far too conversational for the way his hands have gone stiff against the slope of Aziraphale’s back. 

Aziraphale swallows. He doesn’t want to say, doesn’t want to admit to even having such thoughts, not after the last time the topic came up between them. He thinks of the dead look in Crowley’s eyes before. 

_“Going to pray at me? Draw a circle and force me into it? Have me list my sins and repent?”_

Aziraphale had never thought of prayer as a weapon before. Not like that. But now the phantom of warm ceramic haunts his fingers and he can feel the way the holy words would crowd their way from his throat as he blessed the water. He wouldn’t need a circle, wouldn’t need Crowley to repent, not if the goal is annihilation. 

Crowley would scream. He would beg. He’d lose any semblance of the demon Aziraphale admires so devoutly. His eyes would be huge and bright, control lost to fear and solidly yellow for it. 

Aziraphale thinks of those things and he hates himself and he wets his lips to speak. 

“I dreamed of losing myself,” he says. “Of committing the worst sin I can comprehend and not even realizing I’d done it until it was far too late.” 

Crowley lets go of him and for a half-second Aziraphale is sure that he’s finally done it, finally said the thing that will drive Crowley away, but then Crowley’s hands are on his face again. 

“Hey, hey,” Crowley whispers. “You’ve gotta stop crying, demons are awful at comforting crying people.” 

Aziraphale opens eyes he hadn’t even realized he’d closed. Crowley is looking up at him, face serious and still, brows drawn low and mouth a flat slash. When he sees Aziraphale looking he blinks[2] and the left corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. He’s not apologizing for crying, he can’t control that anymore than the sea can control her tides. It’s apparent that Crowley doesn’t understand, so he goes on. “I dreamed I hurt you, killed you. I didn’t remember doing it, I didn’t want to do it. But, I– I did anyway.” 

Crowley’s lip twitches again. “No, you didn’t,” he says, “S’just a dream. You know how many times I’ve had bloody awful dreams? S’all part and parcel.” 

Aziraphale tries to shake his head, but Crowley’s grip on his face is firm. “No,” he says, “No. You can’t control your dreams. You’ve not sinned here and you’ve not hurt me. ‘Sides, look at how upset you are. I trust your waking reaction a bit more than some silly dream.” 

Aziraphale sniffs. He wishes he had one hand free to wipe at his nose, but that would mean letting go of Crowley and he has no plans to do that anytime soon. 

"Ew," Crowley says and Aziraphale giggles. 

"You have such a command of the language, my dear," he teases. Crowley sputters, proving his point, and Aziraphale giggles again. 

"The thanks I get," Crowley mutters. He wriggles a bit as he does so, nestling himself further into Aziraphale’s hold. 

“Why not the master?” Aziraphale asks after the last of their mirth fades[3] Crowley’s wiggling ended up with Aziraphale’s nose buried in the demon’s hair, so, while he waits for Crowley’s answer, he turns his head back and forth slightly, enjoying the feel of the silken strands against the tip of his nose. Crowley still smells a bit musty, but Aziraphale thinks the smell of dust might always remind him of this night and so he breathes deeply, committing it to memory. 

Crowley shrugs. He trails one long finger along the curve of Aziraphale’s thigh, sending a shiver down his spine. The act is an attempt at distraction but Aziraphale allows it, at least for now. Crowley was silly and irreverent and kind when Aziraphale needed distraction, the least he can do is return the favor. There will be time to ask Crowley again later. 

Right now, he reaches down and captures Crowley’s fingers in his own, drawing them up to his mouth where he lays a gentle kiss on the pad of the longest. A smile curls his lips; Crowley’s hand tastes like him, like their combined sweat, and like the evidence of their pleasure, salty and just on the wrong side of bitter. 

Crowley makes an inarticulate noise and when Aziraphale looks at him, he’s staring up at his own hand, pupils blown so wide they’re nearly circles. The dark sheets rise around his head, a halo writ in negative space wanting only for stars. 

“You wouldn’t need those silly spectacles,” Aziraphale says before realizing he is going to speak at all. 

Crowley blinks at him. “What?”

Aziraphale feels the flush spread across his cheeks. “Ah, I was just- I mean, it’s nothing, really.” 

A mischievous look appears and dammit, Aziraphale is already feeling oddly weak and wobbly around the edges, he really didn’t need to see _that_ expression on Crowley’s face as well[4]. Crowley seems to sense this, because he shifts again, spreading his legs and allowing Aziraphale’s bulk to fall between them, canting his hips so their cocks brush and then pressing closer still. He loops his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and leans in. 

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says, half-strangled with desire, “You really needn’t-”

“But I wantn’t,” Crowley says, then pauses, seeming to consider the word and if it could, in fact, be called a word at all. He shakes his head as if to toss the confusion to the side and kisses Aziraphale, his lips warm and dry. Almost reflexively, Aziraphale’s shifts his weight so he’s leaning on a single elbow and reaches down, grasping at Crowley’s hip. “Come on, you know I can’t stand a mystery. S’not fair to us poor sods on the outside of the joke.” He pulls back just far enough for Aziraphale to see the genuinely pathetic pout he wears. 

He sighs. 

“I mean,” Crowley says, pulling back just a bit and it’s everything Aziraphale can do not to whimper as the motion gives him just a bit of that friction he needs. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” Even his hair looks like it’s pouting, scrunched up by the sheets and drooping sadly. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale says. “You foul thing you. I was only just thinking that if I kept you aroused all the time your pupils would always be so large. You-”

“Wouldn’t need the spectacles,” Crowley finishes for him. He’s biting his lip now and Aziraphale is struck by the sudden worry that this is a hidden snare he’d not known about, that Crowley doesn’t hide his eyes simply to avoid the trouble of miracling away human attention but that he really is insecure about his eyes. 

“Yes,” he says, refusing to lie to Crowley when they’re entwined so closely. 

“I’m not upset,” Crowley tells him quickly. He’s smiling and as he arches his back so every inch of him leans further back he drags his hands down Aziraphale’s chest, using just enough pressure to leave pale lines that vanish before Crowley reaches the end of his path. “Just surprised that thoughts like that are allowed by your boss, feels a bit like lust, don’it? 

Aziraphale is quite sure it is in fact Lust. Capital letter and everything. He lusts after Crowley; after his body and the little noises he makes as he falls apart at Aziraphale’s touch, after the whipcord strength of his arms as they hold Aziraphale close, after the spark in his eye when he sees Aziraphale across the room and the tiny point of his teeth that only shows when he smiles and thinks no one is watching. 

Aziraphale has always been led to believe that Lust would feel dirty, that he would know it was one of the seven deadlies by the cloying way it snapped to his very essence, like tar upon a white sand beach. He thinks the sins might all be far more dangerous than that though, if they are all so natural. 

He can’t imagine feeling any other way about Crowley. If that means his regard is doomed to be relegated to the realm of simple Lust, then so be it. 

But, he also cannot find the words to articulate any of that to Crowley, so instead he simply smiles and grips Crowley tighter, shifting his own weight back and up as he lifts Crowley, repositioning them further up the headboard of the tiny bed. Crowley yelps and holds him tightly but does not squirm away from him[5]. 

“You talk an awful lot,” Aziraphale tells Crowley, though he’s sure to smile as he says it so Crowley knows it’s nothing more than a jest. 

“Look who’s, uh, talking. Shit.” Crowley glares at him. 

They stay that way for a long moment before Aziraphale cannot contain his snicker any longer, and when it escapes Crowley tumbles down after him and soon they are wrapped around each other once again, giggling madly at nothing at all. 

It’s something of a natural miracle, Aziraphale thinks as their giggles fall back into a comfortable quiet, that a creature as singular as Crowley cares for him. He traces his index finger down the line of Crowley’s sternum, chasing the dusting of sparse hair, following it down, down, down, until his finger catches against the sharp jut of Crowley’s pelvis. He looks up to see Crowley watching him, lips parted and cheeks flushed. Aziraphale can feel his interest between them. 

“May I?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley’s eyes are wide as he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. He lifts his hips a bit, moving with Aziraphale’s direction as Aziraphale slides his knees under Crowley’s thighs and pushes forward. He slides his right hand up Crowley’s inner thigh, delighting in the combination of smooth skin and rough whimper that escapes the demon. Crowley bites his lip, sharp canine digging into the tender flesh and Aziraphale cannot resist any longer. He leans forward and kisses him, mouth open and hungry. Crowley gasps into the kiss, startled for the briefest moment before he’s meeting Aziraphale’s enthusiasm with his own. He arcs up into Aziraphale’s hold, legs wrapping tightly around his waist and pulling him in. Aziraphale’s searching hand reaches Crowley’s behind. 

The eager exploration of Aziraphale’s mouth stutters and then Aziraphale’s fingers are slick with oil. He smiles into the kiss, nipping at Crowley’s bottom lip. “Impatient,” he says. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “A demon can’t be polite?” 

“No, no, thank you very much, dear.” As he speaks Aziraphale slips his index finger into Crowley, slowly but steadily breaching him. Crowley’s teasing grin vanishes as his mouth falls open and he throws his head back, a low keen building in the back of his throat when Aziraphale begins to slowly push the finger in and out. He can feel the tingle of a continuous miracle zipping along his hand, the slight tang of demonic magic keeping him slick. It’s a tiring sort of miracle, but an appreciated one. Aziraphale could do it himself, but he wants to focus the entirety of his attention on taking Crowley to pieces beneath him[6]. 

Aziraphale feels the way Crowley’s muscles tense and then loosen. He kisses the demon again, presses Crowley’s head into the soft bed even as he presses another finger into him. Crowley grunts, his eyes fluttering shut, heels digging into Aziraphale’s rear. 

“Is this okay?” Aziraphale says, startled to find himself breathless. The constant buzz of demonic miracle is heady, speeding his pulse and concentrating itself in his groin. 

* * *

“Is this okay?” Aziraphale’s voice shakes and Satan if that isn’t the most attractive thing Crowley’s ever heard. 

“Yesssssss,” Crowley hisses in answer. He doesn’t mean to, wants to draw the terrible evidence of his nature back as soon as it escapes. The overwhelmed, shaky feeling from before is rising again in his gut[7]. 

Aziraphale’s fingers shift, angling slightly differently and Crowley’s breath punches from him in a single long rush. He scrabbles at Aziraphale’s arm, begging wordlessly for that sensation to be repeated. It’s not like it was before, when the universe reeled behind his eyes, this is all so much more grounded and human feeling. If it weren’t for the constant low-level drain of the miracle to keep Aziraphale’s fingers slick, Crowley could almost pretend they _are_ humans. 

It’s not that he wants to be a human, he’s never really wanted that. But, as Aziraphale adds a third finger and the stretch shifts from pleasant to _ohyespleasepleaseplease_ , the narrow slip of Crowley’s mind that isn’t overwhelmed by everything happening right now, thinks it might be easier if they were not who they are. 

He’d show up and ask Aziraphale if he wanted to go for a walk (people still walked, didn’t they? It had only been two decades after all, surely they still went for walks. He wanted to take Aziraphale for whatever the humans did instead of walks these days.). Aziraphale would blush and laugh and pick up his umbrella because Crowley always forgot his, and they set out. They’d enjoy the day together and no one would bother them and then they’d return to Crowley’s townhouse and he’d offer Aziraphale a drink and they’d fall into bed together with no worries at all about ‘sides’ or who might one day be ordered to kill who. 

He thinks he’d like that. 

“Aziraphale,” he manages to say. Aziraphale hasn’t stopped moving, though he has slowed, pausing at the deeped post of each long thrust to rub his thumb up the skin between Crowley’s ass and cock. It sends a shiver down his spine and fans the fire in his belly that much higher. 

Aziraphale grunts. He’s sweating and somehow Crowley thinks that that’s the thing that makes this all feel the most real. Aziraphale doesn’t have to sweat, not if he doesn’t want to, and yet he’s so wrapped up in Crowley and the pleasure that twists higher and higher between them, that he’s forgotten to stop himself from perspiring. 

“Please, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He wants to say more, wants to put every filthy thought he’s ever had in the long dark of the night as he gripped himself and shook apart imagining Aziraphale touching him, but the words are trapped beyond the distant stars of his mind. There is only Aziraphale, only this moment. 

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asks, though he’s already pulling his fingers free. Crowley keens at the loss, nodding even as he cranes his neck to the side to pepper kisses along Aziraphale’s wrist. He’s sure his fingers are leaving bruises where they dig into Aziraphale’s thigh. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Crowley’s eyes dart open, a protest lodged on his tongue, but before it can manifest Aziraphale is entering him. 

_Ah,_ he thinks, only just barely managing to keep up the miracle to keep Aziraphale slick, _that’s where those stars went_. The universe that had exploded behind his eyes last time, collapses, explodes, collapses, again and again, in time with each thrust of Aziraphale’s hips into him. An endless cycle of Creation and destruction with Crowley caught in the very center, watching and writhing and twisting around himself, a serpent chasing its own tail around and around and around and and and

“Crowley, darling.” Aziraphale’s voice is a distant rumble, a gentle cataclysm sending a gravitational wave rippling through the core of him and pulling him inexorably inward. 

The frequency of the waves slows, but does not stop. 

“This is very flattering,” Aziraphale says, “But I need to know you’re okay.” 

He sounds genuinely a bit worried and Crowley can’t have that, not when he’s being made to feel so blessed _good._

“Mngfh?” He manages, blinking his eyes open. They’re still in the little back bedroom, Crowley on his back with his legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist as the angel continues to slowly thrust. Crowley appreciates that, the slick drag and pressure, the sensation of being filled to the brim and then a bit more, is overwhelming, but he isn’t sure he could tolerate the feeling without motion. 

Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes bright. 

“Is that a good _mngfh_ or a bad one?” 

Crowley glances down to where his cock, flushed so dark it’s nearly purple, bobs between them. 

“You–” he gasps and clutches at Aziraphale as the bastard’s smile draws just a bit wider. “You really have to ask?” 

The thrusts slow just a bit more and Crowley whines. “Nononono,” he pants. “If you stop now I’m gonna… gonna….” He casts about for a suitable threat but Aziraphale is hitting that spot deep within him that makes his fingers twitch and his legs shake and he finds rational thought is suddenly ephemeral at best, clever threats a complete non-starter. 

“You’ll?” Aziraphale’s smile is broad. One hand is still on Crowley’s hip, helping to guide him while the other slides behind his neck, lifting him, folding him in half so Aziraphale can kiss him. The change in position makes him whine as he chases the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue when it retreats from his mouth. He catches it gently with his teeth and takes advantage of Aziraphale’s surprise to suck it into his mouth. Aziraphale’s groan rattles through him. 

There’s a slight sucking sound when the separate and Crowley is gratified to see that Aziraphale looks nearly as dazed as he feels. 

“Not do that again,” Crowley says. 

“Well,” Aziraphale laughs, “We can’t have that.” The hand wrapped around the back of Crowley’s neck shifts, sliding upward into his hair even as Aziraphale’s pace increases. 

“Shit, fuck.” 

“You say such beautiful things, darling,” Aziraphale says into the divot at the base of his throat as he twines his fingers in Crowley’s hair and tilts his head back. Gently. Oh so gently. Crowley’s miracle never stutters for a moment. He’s never felt so cared for, never had anyone’s attention focused on him like this and not had it hurt. He hadn’t known touching someone else could be like this. 

“You’re… beautiful thing,” he finally says, realizing he’d never responded. 

Aziraphale laughs into his collarbone and Crowley allows himself to tumble back into the waiting stars. 

* * *

1. Begs, though he’d prefer not to apply that word to himself.↩

2. Crowley doesn’t blink often. He doesn’t need to, but Aziraphale has noticed that he tends to do so when he’s mentally readjusting. It’s an endearing tell and one that Aziraphael holds close to his chest.↩

3. He’s wondered about this little back bedroom since arriving at the townhouse. It’s so very far from what he expects of Crowley.↩

4. He’d realized sometimes around the seventh century that he’d developed something of an instinctive response to that look. He hasn’t heard about Pavlov yet, but one day Aziraphale will feel a great deal of kinship with his dog.↩

5. Later Aziraphale thinks he might break down about the degree of trust Crowley is gifting him with right now. But that’s for the future’s Aziraphale. This one is rather busy.↩

6. Aziraphale thinks, distantly, of Crowley saying he’d never done these things before, of how he’d shaken before. Thinks of how one might belay those sort of nerves with a miracle to ensure nothing hurt. His grip on Crowley’s hip gentles.↩

7. Later he’ll sit down and laugh himself silly when he realizes it only happened when Aziraphale was on top of him. Some terrifying denizen of Hell he is.↩


	9. Know Me By My Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 Days of Blasphemy, day 11: And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly.
> 
> (I swear to god yall get an explanation next chapter)
> 
> Warning: Crowley spends much of this chapter mid-panic attack, however it is not graphically described

“Well, that _is_ unconventional.” 

Crowley freezes in Aziraphale’s arms, his eyes locked on Aziraphale’s face, yellow to the edges in terror. Aziraphale swallows, closing his own eyes and allowing himself a single, shuddering, breath before he opens them again and forces a bland smile onto his face. 

“Archangel Michael.” He knows he is skirting the edge of polite, but Crowley’s fingers are hooks in his ribs, his lower half especially scaly feeling, and Aziraphale can’t quite find the wherewithal to put on a more believable front. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

“Hm.” He hears her steady footsteps, the scrape of the chair[1], the way the wood creaks ever-so-slightly as she sits. Crowley’s gaze shivers, twitches, as if he wants to follow her, but can’t bring himself to move, even that much. Aziraphale sends a wave of comfort in his direction. There’s no point in pretending now, not when Michael has caught him quite literally in bed with the enemy. “Nor was I expecting you to be quite so eager to fulfill your assignment.” 

Aziraphale blinks. The Archangel sounds almost… impressed? 

“Oh, do get off it.” Michael sniffs. Then, she makes a considering sound. “Apologies. Him. Habit and all that.” 

Crowley isn’t breathing and that gives Aziraphale the motivation to finally move. 

“Archangel Michael, I’m honored by your visit,” he says, brushing his thumb across the hard line of Crowley’s lowest rib. “Could you, perhaps, give us a few minutes to make ourselves presentable? I believe there’s a drawing room on the ground floor and,” he pauses to blink his next statement into truth, “a light lunch has just been served.” Gabriel has never been one for human food, but Aziraphale happens to know that Michael has a weakness for savory desserts and smoked teas. 

A sigh and then the chair creaks again as she stands. “Very well. I have another appointment, so hurry along. You can get back to work soon.” Three sharp steps to the door and then they are once again alone. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale strokes the side of Crowley’s face. The demon is still staring into the space over his left shoulder, pupils the barest suggestions of lines. “Darling, you’re beginning to frighten me.” 

A strangled sort of hiss escapes Crowley and Aziraphale might be comforted, except he doesn’t think it’s an intentional noise. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispers. As carefully as he can, he shifts his weight back onto his knees and rises, intending to move to sit beside Crowley. But, before he even settles Crowley is panicked, scrambling, grabbing at him with claw-tipped fingers. They prick his naked flesh, but he barely notices past the rush of concern. 

_I used to have such wonderful dreams._ Aziraphale thinks of the crippling, terrified fear that had swept over him when he first entered the townhouse. 

He holds Crowley close, tucking his head into the hollow of his throat and wishing he'd paused for even a moment to actually think before giving into his own suppressed desires. He wants to apologize but knows that he doesn’t have the words to make his apology clear; he’s not sorry for what they’ve done, but he is sorry for what they’ve done and he’s not sure how to make the distinction between the two sorts of ‘done’ that he means. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, his words slipping into the quiet between them. Aziraphale’s hold on him tightens reflexively. Crowley turns his head so his lips brush against Aziraphale’s collar bone when he continues. “I, uh, I forgot why you were here.” He laughs, hardly more than a puff of air, but a laugh all the same and a bit of the tension on Aziraphale’s chest untwists. 

“I mean, I _know_ why you’re here, but we were ah,” he raises his hand and makes a little wiggling gesture. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, unable to keep the smile from his voice, “Is that meant to be sex?” 

Crowley makes the gesture again, peering at his own hand in mild confusion. “Yes,” he finally says. “Looks like snake sex, I think.” Another wiggle, then his hand drops back to Aziraphale’s chest, half curled and limp. “Anyway. I’d forgotten or I’d decided it wasn’t really about all that. Told m’self that it was about you missing me, or regretting our fight and wanting to come see me.” 

He kisses Aziraphale’s clavicle, once, twice, a third time. 

“Thought maybe it was that you couldn’t wait until I woke up,” he says, even more quietly than before. 

There’s a rather large lump of _something_ in Aziraphale’s throat. He tries to swallow past it, to gather up the frayed threads of his thoughts and reassure Crowley, but the simple truth is that he can’t. Were it not for Michael’s order he knows he wouldn't have come here today. 

“Know it’s silly,” Crowley says. “An angel missing a demon. Ha.” 

That, finally, is far enough that Aziraphale can speak. 

“After all this time, do you still think so little of me?” 

Crowley snorts. “S’not thinking little of you,” he says, “The opposite, really.”

“I don’t understand.” Aziraphale tries to think about how any of this could reflect positively on him, but finds nothing at all. 

“In hell,” Crowley explains, voice soft, “we don’t have personal space. No such thing as taking a minute to recover from ah, rude notes."

His voice is very flat as he says it. 

"You keep moving, keep your back to the wall when there's walls available, and when there's not you never stop, no matter how much it hurts. No rest, no reprieve. Nothing."

"Crowley, my dear." Even to his own ears, Aziraphale's voice sounds foreign. Crowley doesn't seem to hear him. 

"S'why i like sleeping here, y'know? Sometimes Dagon wants constant reports, every little temptation accounted for and cataloged, no matter how stupid. Nicked this Lord's watch. Tempted that lady-in-waiting to do more waiting and less lady-ing. All that rot. Don't get no sleep at all then." Another huffed laugh, though Aziraphale feels no humor behind it. "Don't need the sleep, of course. Body's never tired. But, _I_ am, of that makes any sense at all."

Aziraphale thinks of his own desire to hide away in the bookshop for the next few decades and nods. That makes sense. 

"So, I finally get back to earth and blessed sleep and I don't move for a few months because I _can_."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, not quite sure what part of all that he's apologizing for but feeling he ought to anyway.

Crowley shakes his head. "S'not why I'm telling you this," he says. "I think maybe, it's the same for you."

Aziraphale blinks. "What?"

"Oh not exactly the same, less torture in Heaven I'd think. But, yeah. You seem tired, angel."

And suddenly, Aziraphale realizes he _is_ tired. Crowley’s words strike a twofold blow at the core of him; it always hurts to hear Crowley’s references to Hell and the agonies inflicted upon him there, but he’s never thought about Heaven in the same light. Crowley’s right, there’s no corporal punishment[2] in Heaven, Aziraphale has never been tortured or hurt or, or, anything like that. He fears his superiors only as much as anyone should. It is noble to be God-fearing, after all. 

(He carefully avoids the thought that he’s not actually God-fearing at all, but Gabriel-fearing and Michael-fearing and any number of other angels-fearing, but never God Herself and that distinction feels massive in ways he’s not ready to address just now.)

He’s always seen his reluctance to go back to Heaven, the twitch in his fingers and the lead in his feet, as a flaw in his own being. It is _him_ who’s wrong, never them. It cannot be them because they are Good and he’s only barely good on the best of days. 

But. 

Michael had asked him to hurt Crowley. 

Michael had asked him to hurt Crowley and there are times when he aches to his very core with exhaustion after even a brief visit to Heaven and Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s how it’s meant to be. 

“Anyway,” Crowley seems not to have realized just how radically he’s shifted Aziraphale’s worldview as he goes on, “I just meant that I don’t ever expect you to come to me after we fight if you’re not ready. Don’t want you to feel pressured to before you’re ready. I thought since I was sleeping you’d not feel that pressure and then if you were here anyway it was because you wanted to be.” 

Another kiss on his collarbone. Crowley’s lips are slightly dry–he’s been breathing through his mouth, Aziraphale thinks. 

“But, it was stupid because you told me why you were here. I just. I forgot.” He twists his head and catches Aziraphale’s eyes, his own crinkled at the corners, inviting Aziraphale in on the joke. “Take it as a complement, angel. You’re so good in bed you made me forget.”

Aziraphale’s laugh is a little watery. 

“The highest compliment,” he agrees. 

He kisses Crowley, savoring the feel of his dry lips and the way the left corner quirks towards a smile halfway through the kiss. 

“Suppose we should put some clothes on,” Crowley says when they pull back. “Seems I’ve got a bit of an angel infestation going.” 

Aziraphale snorts but allows Crowley to drop one more rapid kiss on his nose before he slides from Aziraphale’s lap. Then, because he can, he admires the view of Crowley’s backside as he walks across the tiny space to the wardrobe across from the door. There are two little divots just above his rear that Aziraphale thinks might fit his thumbs perfectly. Crowley throws him a look over his shoulder, brows arched high. 

“Lusting with the Archangel Michael just downstairs?” he asks, “Bold, angel.” 

Aziraphale does not dignify this with a response. Instead, he swings his legs out over the side of the bed and picks up his undershirt, pulling it on. Crowley takes a dusty suit from his wardrobe and studies it. 

“I thought you Miracled your clothing.” Aziraphale distinctly remembers watching as Crowley snapped a toga into existence inside a Roman bathhouse. 

Crowley scowls. “I do. But, believe it or not, I’m feeling a bit drained after all that.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers tingle with the sense memory of the sting of a demonic miracle. Right, he thinks, Crowley _had_ kept that up for a rather long time and something so specific is always harder than larger, flashier things. 

“I could,” he raises his hand in offering, but Crowley shakes his head. 

“Nah.” He smiles. “I keep a few things around just in case.” 

They dress in silence. Aziraphale itches to help Crowley, but the demon grows stiffer, cooler, with each item of clothing he puts on. When he’s fully dressed and playing with his hair in the wardrobe mirror that Aziraphale realizes what it reminds him of; he’s watching Crowley put on armor. It may be wool and linen, but the way his shoulders settle, the cool confidence, it’s all familiar from those dreary days in the mist. 

Finally, Crowley is dressed and seemingly wanting for only one thing. He looks around the room, on each shelf of the wardrobe, under the edge of the bed, but can’t seem to find it. Aziraphale watches for a long moment before he snaps and holds his hand out, a pair of dark spectacles in the latest fashion folded in his palm. 

Crowley takes them with shaking hands. He nods in wordless appreciation. 

“Shall we, my dear?” Another nod. Aziraphale sees Crowley clench his hands into fists at his sides a few times. 

He reaches out and takes one, squeezing it tightly. 

“I don’t know how this will go,” he says, “But, I swear to you that you will not be changed.” 

Crowley holds his gaze for a few long seconds, face unreadable and Aziraphale yearns to touch him, to soothe the terror he can still see bubbling away everywhere _except_ his face. Then, Crowley sighs and his shoulders slump and he nods one last time. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Might as well get it over with.”

The trip downstairs is far too quick for Aziraphale’s comfort. He’d much rather Michael be waiting at the end of an impassible labyrinth or the top of an unclimbable mountain. At least then he’d be able to spend some time with Crowley on the journey, perhaps even claim that he’d failed in the traveling and she’d not be patient enough to wait for him. 

A single staircase and hallway are a far cry from what Aziraphale desires. 

But, they are what he has.

He doesn’t allow himself to pause outside the drawing room door. It would be less than pointless as Michael left the door open behind her and the paltry comfort of a few extra seconds means nothing when Crowley is so very dim at his side[3]. 

“Aziraphale!” Michael greets, turning to him with a smile as he steps through the door. He guides Crowley to a chair and presses him down as gently as he’s able. His hand doesn’t shake, but it’s a near thing as he steps in front of Crowley and holds it out in greeting. As Michael shakes it, she peers around him and says, “And Crawly, is it?” She sounds as if she’s consulting a file, though her hands are empty. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale corrects. Hearing the name he’d known Crowley by for the majority of their acquaintance is jarring and he hates the way he can feel Crowley tense at his side. 

“Oh excellent,” Michael’s smile slides a bit closer to warm, though it still doesn’t reach her eyes. “You really have hit on something here haven’t you? If he’s already giving up his Damned Name.” 

Aziraphale blinks. He glances at Crowley and sees that he’s no closer to understanding than Aziraphale himself. Thinking it best to stay quiet[4], he inclines his head. It is true that Crowley chose his own name, it simply happened long before today and without any sort of interference on Aziraphale’s part. Archangels see what they want to see, it’s a closely held truth that Aziraphale has relied on for far longer than he cared to admit. 

“So, tell me.” Michael claps her hands together. “I can feel the difference already.” She pauses and laughs, “I admit I’m surprised. Gabriel said you’d not succeed, that we should send Sandalphon or Uriel to do the job. I’m glad to see that my trust in you wasn’t misplaced.” 

Crowley is little more than a demon shaped statue behind him, aura so jagged Aziraphale fears he’ll shatter at the slightest provocation. 

“Archangel,” Aziraphale begins slowly, casting about desperately for what she might be referring to, but nothing feels different to him. There’s only him and Crowley and the bit-tongue taste of Archangel in the space between realities. 

“I’m only sorry you had to lay with him,” Michael goes on, blithely ignorant of Aziraphale’s confusion or Crowley’s petrification. “You truly are a credit to your rank. I’ll be sure to emphasize that in my report.” 

“Thank you, Archangel,” he says faintly, reflexively. Praise from his superior has never made him quite so nauseous before. 

“You’re clearly not done.” She gestures to Crowley and laughs a little. “But, this is promising progress indeed. Shall we say, a quarterly check-in? Of course if you have anything to report sooner my door is always open.” 

Aziraphale nods. It sounds as if she means to leave as quickly as she’d come and he’ll be damned if he argues or does anything at all to slow her down. He needs time, needs to figure out what it is she senses and why he can’t sense it. 

Needs to know if he’s hurt Crowley[5].

Behind him, Crowley is still and silent. 

* * *

1. Crowley’s chair. That’s Crowley’s chair, how dare she touch anything at all of his, how dare she even be here, how dare–↩

2. There is _corporeal_ punishment via the loss of one’s Permit of Corporation should you get discorporated too many times, but that’s a rather different beast.↩

3. The demon normally shines, not bright, only angels are bright, but luminescent. The sort of shine that pours from distantly wheeling galaxies, far outside the limitations of human sight and all the more lovely for its restrictions.↩

4. Most of Heaven will vehemently debate about the relative proportion of discretion and valor and whether or not those proportions change depending on who one happens to be speaking with, but everyone agrees that it’s at least ninety percent of the game when Archangels are in play.↩

5. He’ll be damned in far more than the colloquial sense if he has.↩


	10. Something Wanting In My Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Old Astronomer by Sarah Williams
> 
> _Well then, kiss me,—since my mother left her blessing on my brow,  
>  There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;  
> I can dimly comprehend it,—that I might have been more kind,  
> Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind._
> 
> The 12th and final blasphemy prompt was: For in him dwelleth all the fullness of the Godhead bodily.
> 
> Warning for depiction of a panic attack from the POV of the person experiencing it.

Dimly, Crowley is aware that Aziraphale and Michael are speaking. He should probably be listening. It’s probably important. Michael sounds pleased, cool, collected. Aziraphale still stands between them, but his shoulders aren’t as tense as they were. 

Crowley really should listen. 

His knuckles hurt. 

He looks down at them. He’s holding the arms of his chair in a claw-tipped grip, small tears in the fabric sprouting tufts of cotton even as he looks. They creak when he tries to loosen his grip. 

His knuckles hurt. 

There’s a howling, yawning cavern at the core of him. It aches for wanting. 

He’d thought thought thought

No no he shouldn’t– shouldn’t think

means well, knows better

thoughts mean questions _why why why_ nothing good comes of questions

nothing good

he’s nothing more than questions on a good day nothing more nothing good comes of asking 

The people in the room with him are moving. No, not people. Aziraphale. He’s moving, walking. There’s someone else. Crowley tries to track them, but makes the mistake of trying to breathe at the same time and the void in his center collapses. 

He imagines his ribs shattering, crumbling, folding in on themselves. A black hole of his own making that he can’t escape. 

(tap tap tap tap, the burn of a blessing directed at another, a snap, a click)

Angels are immortal, but they can be killed. Eve’s ribs were bare at the end, Adam’s burned to ash long before her and no one left at all to give her last rites. Crowley’s are a ruin of names he can’t read, words he can’t say. 

Angels can be killed. Crowley’s knuckles ache. His ears ring with the desperate cries of a friend who slipped, who fell, who was caught in the riptide of their own Making. 

His first question had been a plea for mercy, for a balm to soothe the agony in his hands. 

Had they suffered? 

He can no longer recall their name. 

(The shadow comes closer now, closer closer closer)

Recalls nothing at all but the slip of their fingers from his own and the way his own cry had been lost in the violence of the-angel-who-would-become-Satan as they fought to throw themselves after the lost one. 

Will it hurt? 

no no no no no no stop no thinking can’t think bad thoughts

These are the sort of thoughts that had led him to ask for Holy Water. Can’t have them now because he can’t tolerate that rejection now. This, today, last night, any of it, none of it, it can’t be fraternization. That’s when he skives off a meeting of the Dark Council a bit early to have a drink with the less annoying imps from the 4th Circle. 

Crowley’s knuckles ache and his arse aches and what they did upstairs _can’t_ be fraternization. 

Oh, Satan, where’s Aziraphale? He looks around frantically, but the world is a smear of blue-grey. How long has he been gone? Did Michael take him? Did Crowley mess something up? Shit shit shit, of course he did, that was a bleeding Archangel and he-

There are warm hands on his face, soft fingers gripping him just hard enough that he has to open his eyes (when did he close them?). The red is still missing from the world, but when he manages to focus his eyes there’s Aziraphale plain as day in all his cream and tan glory. He’s holding Crowley’s face and speaking and it’s not until that moment that Crowley realizes he’s not properly hearing anything at all. The tone behind Aziraphale’s words (rapid, worried, but not afraid) is clear as day, but the words are nothing more than vibrations. 

“Gimme a minute,” he slurs, tongue clumsy in his mouth, hoping Aziraphale can parse his meaning. 

Aziraphale’s mouth stops moving, the vibrations settle, and Crowley leans into his hands. 

His knuckles ache. 

He breathes, tasting the air with each inhale. After the first few, when Aziraphale’s scent remains as strong as ever and Michael’s continues to dissipate, he works on loosing a finger at a time from the ruined fabric of the chair. 

By the time the red bleeds back into his vision his hands are curled in his lap. 

“You can talk,” he says and he hears his own voice more than he feels it[1]. 

Aziraphale’s face very clearly says that he wishes to ask if Crowley is okay, but he refrains (Crowley likes that about him, that he knows when not to ask questions. Crowley’s never quite managed that trick). 

“Michael has no damned clue what she’s talking about, Crowley,” Aziraphale says and Crowley thinks it probably means something that this is the first and most important thing that Aziraphale wants him to know. “I didn’t do anything to you, I swear.” 

Crowley nods. It’s not that he’d thought that Aziraphale had done. It’s just that Archangels didn’t tend to be liars in his experience and Michael was saying he had. She’d seemed so confident. 

“But,” Aziraphale goes on, looking almost ill, “can I check anyway?” He’s wringing his hands together, twisting his fingers around and around and around and–

Crowley reaches out and stills them. Both their knuckles shouldn’t hurt. 

“Yes, but I’m coming, too.” Aziraphale is nodding before he’s done speaking. 

They close their eyes, breathe in, and breathe themselves out of the physical realm, slipping into the space between worlds and turning to look back at what can be seen of their true forms from this angle[2].

At first, nothing seems changed to Crowley. Aziraphale is still a tumbling riot of nervous movement, wheels that flicker between flaming and gleaming, light refracting and reflecting and bouncing between his curves and angles in a never ending rainbow of shimmering love and strength. HIs eyes are a watchful barrier around the whole of him, darting about but always returning to that which they hold most dear. As he watches they look around and then refocus on the teeming mass of iridescent scales and briar beside them. 

Crowley’s never especially liked his true form. It’s nothing like he knows he was meant to be; vast and free and filled with the spark of Creation as the stellar forge at his core churned ever onward. That fire is banked now, a chilly blue dwarf spinning wildly but only barely visible through the coils of the serpent. It’s so…. Physical. Crowley has never thought he was meant to be physical. 

There’s nothing different here, he’s not been changed. It should be a relief, except… What had Michael seen? 

He turns away from himself and looks at Aziraphale, planning to ask if he’s done and they can settle back into their bodies. But, Aziraphale is spinning faster and faster, his light shifting from visible to ultraviolet and beyond, wordlessly excited. 

So, Crowley looks again. 

This time, he Sees. 

He thinks the fact that they’re pressed so close together is what hides it at first. His own scales reflect the light of Azriahpale’s rings and the show is dazzling enough to distract him. But, he is tired and remaining in this space is not easy and even as he watches he sees a few tendrils of Aziraphale slip in, readily filling the gaps left behind as pieces of Crowley retreat to the star at his nexus to recover. His defences are never allowed to slip even a scrap. 

If an observer didn’t know them well, if they weren’t one of the ones it was happening to, they likely wouldn’t spot it happening. It would just look like a depleted demon being overwhelmed by the inexorable force of Holy Might. 

But, Crowley can see the careful way Aziraphale’s energy never pushes, never moves past his outermost coils. Yes, his scales shine with holy energy, but it is a gift, not a transformation. 

He’s being changed, but not in the way he feared, not in an unwelcome way[3]. 

He opens his eyes. 

Aziraphale still kneels before him, still has his hands on Crowley’s face. He’s smiling, brows raised slightly in the center and eyes soft. 

“That’s what she saw?” Crowley confirms, just to be sure they’re on the same page. 

“Yes, I believe so.” 

Crowley shakes his head. “I cannot believe the reason I’m not a smoking demon-puddle right now is because I wanted to be a gentleman about lubrication.” 

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Aziraphale has the gall to sound sage and Crowley cannot help the laugh that escapes him in a single great bark. He reaches out and yanks Aziraphale in for a kiss. He still feels shaky, the colors are still a bit dim and his hearing still more than a little watery, but that just means he can feel the vibration of Aziraphale’s pleased hum all the better. 

When they finally part, Aziraphale rises from the floor and collapses in the chair at Crowley’s side and throws his arm over his face with a groan[4]. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agrees. That’s about the sum of it. 

After a moment, Aziraphale stirs and reaches over to take Crowley’s hand, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. They sit in comfortable silence, listening to the way the townhouse settles around them and the distant calls of people going about their day outside. 

“We could do this, you know,” Aziraphale finally says. “Let them think I’m working on Raising you. I’d be allowed to spend as much time as needed with you.” 

Crowley thinks about it, “But I’d have to stay exhausted?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I have the feel for it now, the places where my energy is with you, I think I could do it consciously. With practice.” 

Crwley nods slowly. 

“As long as it’s not uncomfortable for you, of course.” 

“No, no,” Crowley murmurs. It’s not, the opposite really. Now that he’s aware of what’s happening, he can feel it; the warmth, the kind regard, the deep well of affection and tolerance and friendship. He thinks he could get addicted to feeling that all the time. 

“And this practice,” Crowley says, a slow smirk coiling across his face. 

Aziraphale rolls his head wearily to face Crowley. “Insatiable.”

“Proudly.”

“Perhaps a turn around the park first?” 

Crowley does want to see the sunlight, and he likes the idea of walking together in the park. Perhaps the fresh air will chase the last of the weak, shivering feeling from his limbs. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “After a walk.” 

He stands, offers Aziraphale his hand, and they leave the townhouse together. 

* * *

1. In just over 100 years, when Crowley has a panic attack after dropping the Anti-Christ off, Aziraphale will see the same blank look on his face and forgo speech altogether. Instead, he’ll lean in so he can be sure Crowley’s snake-eyes can see him and he’ll use British Sign Language to tell Crowley that they’ll figure it out, that he doesn’t blame him for doing his job, that he loves him.↩

2. There’s only one spot in all Creation from which the entirety of an angelic trueform can be viewed and Herself usually isn’t too keen on sharing her favorite porch swing.↩

3. It’s rather more like the way he’s been changing for the last six thousand years, like the way anyone changes for the people they love.↩

4. Crowley’s been buying things in pairs for ages, centuries. The master bedroom of the townhouse contains a sprawling double bed he’s never been able to bring himself to sleep in. Maybe now….↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (collapses) i decided to do the blasphemy fills as a single story as a way to force myself past a few mental blocks I had/have around writing intimacy. i dont know if it worked or not, but i really cannot overstate how much your comments have meant in trying to feel okay about both this story and the topics. you're all wonderful, thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> There are images in chapters 3 (sfw) and 8 (nsfw), in case you missed them <3 (I added them after the chapters themselves were posted)


End file.
